THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 
AND  OTHER  STORIES 


OTHER  BOOKS  BY  THE  AUTHOR 

CONSTANTINOPLE   OLD  AND  NEW 
STAMBOUL  NIGHTS 
PERSIAN  MINIATURES 


THE 

EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

AND    OTHER    STORIES 


BY 

H.  G.  DWIGHT 


GARDEN  CITY  NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 
1920 


Copyright,  1908,  1920,  &*/ 
Doubleday,  Page  &  Company 

All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of  translation  into 
foreign  languages,  including  the  Scandinavian 

COPYRIGHT,  1903,  1904,  BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
COPYRIGHT,  1904,  BY  THE  ASSOCIATED  SUNDAY  MAGAZINES 
COPYRIGHT,  1904,  1905,  BY  DODD,  MEAD  «fe  COMPANY,  AND 

GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT,  1905,  BY  THE  OUTLOOK  COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT,  1905,  1906,  BY  SMART  SET  COMPANY,  INC. 

COPYRIGHT,  1909,  BY  THE  SUNSET  MAGAZINE 

COPYRIGHT,  1916,  1917,  1918,  BY  THE  CENTURY  COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT,  1918,  BY  EDWARD  J.  0  BRIEN 

COPYRIGHT,  1918,  BT  SMALL,  MiYNARD  &  COMPANY,  INC. 


TO 
J.  R.  M.  TAYLOR 

COLONEL,  UNITED  STATES  ARMY, 
HISTORIAN  OP  THE  PHILIPPINES: 

ARCH  IRONIST, 

EX-EDITOR  OP  "THE  INFANTRY  JOURNAL," 

LATE  LIBRARIAN  OF  THE  ARMY  WAR  COLLEGE,  WASHINGTON, 

SOMETIME  MILITARY  ATTACH^  AT  THE  AMERICAN  EMBASSY,  CONSTANTINOPLE, 

MEMBER  OF  THE  SOCIETY  OF  THE  CINCINNATI, 
INSTIGATOR  OF  OR  ACCOMPLICE  IN  TOO  MANY  OTHER  ACTIVITIES  HERE  TO  BE  NAMED; 

WHO  YET  FOUND  TIME  TO  INVENT 

ONE,  NOR  THE  LEAST  SEDUCTIVE,  OF  THE  ENSUING  FABLES, 

AND  WHO  COURTEOUSLY  PUT  IN  THE  WAY  OF  HIS  COLLABORATOR 

TWO  OF  THE  MOST  EXASPERATING  AND  PROFITABLE  EXPERIENCES 

OF  A  CAREER  BY  NO  MEANS  BARREN  OF  SUCH  ACCIDENTS: 

WITH  THE  COMPLIMENTS 

OF  HIS  OBLIGED  AND  ADMIRING  FRIEND 

THE  AUTHOR. 


52^408 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

Of  the  stories  in  this  collection,  three  originally  appeared  in 
The  Century  Magazine  ("Like  Michael,"  copyright,  1916;  "The 
Emperor  of  Elam,"  copyright,  1917;  "The  Emerald  of  Tamer 
lane,"  copyright,  1918),  two  each  in  The  Bookman  ("Unto  the 
Day,"  copyright,  1904;  "Studio  Smoke,"  copyright,  1905), 
in  Scribner's  Magazine  ("  The  Bathers, "  copyright,  1903;  "Henri 
etta  Stackpole  Rediviva,"  copyright,  1904),  and  in  The  Smart 
Set  ("Susannah  and  the  Elder,"  copyright,  1905;  "The  Undoing 
of  Mrs.  Derwall,"  copyright,  1906),  and  one  each  in  The  Associ 
ated  Sunday  Magazines  ("Martha  Waring's  Elopement,"  copy 
right,  1904),  in  The  Outlook  ("The  Pagan,"  copyright,  1905),  in 
Short  Stories  ("Castello  Montughi,"  copyright,  1908),  and  in 
The  Sunset  Magazine  ("The  Bald  Spot,"  copyright,  1909). 

It  may  be  added  that  the  names  of  three  of  these  stories  are 
not  the  ones  first  copyrighted  and  that  at  least  two  of  them  have 
been  completely  recast,  while  not  one  of  them  has  been  left  un- 
untouched  in  its  earliest  state.    The  writer  nevertheless  takes 
this  occasion  to  express  to  the  editors  and  publishers  of  the  above 
periodicals,  as  well  as  to  Mr.  W.  J.  O'Brien  and  to  Messrs.  Small, 
Maynard  and  Company— who  made  use  of  "The  Emperor  of 
Elam"  in  The  Best  Short  Stories  of  1917— his  thanks  both  for 
their  former  hospitality  and  for  their  present  courtesy  in  per 
mitting  him  to  reassemble  his  work.    Nor  would  this  small 
payment  of  indebtedness  be  complete  without  mention  of  Colonel 
J.  R.  M.  Taylor,  who  wrote  the  first  draft  of  "The  Emerald  of 
Tamerlane, "  and  who  generously  allows  it  to  be  reprinted  over 
the  signature  of  his  collaborator. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Dedication v 

Acknowledgment vii 

Like  Michael 3 

Henrietta  Stackpole  Rediviva 32 

The  Pagan 52 

White  Bombazine 82 

Unto  the  Day 108 

Mrs.  Derwall  and  the  Higher  Life     .     .     .  131 

The  Bathers 151 

Retarded  Bombs i?2 

Susannah  and  the  Elder iQ1 

The  Emerald  of  Tamerlane 221 

In  collaboration  with  John  Taylor 

Studio  Smoke 252 

Behind  the  Door 266 

The  Bald  Spot 290 

The  Emperor  of  Elam 3°6 


IX 


LIKE  MICHAEL 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 


LIKE  MICHAEL 


WHAT  was  he  like? 
H'm!  That's  rather  a  large  order.  What 
are  people  like,  I  wonder?  Some  of  them  are 
like  dogs.  There  are  plenty  of  poodles  and  bull  pups 
walking  around  on  two  legs.  Some  of  them  are  like 
cats.  Some  of  them  are  like  pigs.  A  few  of  them  are 
like  hyenas.  More  of  them  are  like  fishes  in  aquari 
ums.  A  lot  of  them  are  like  horses — of  all  kinds, 
from  thoroughbreds  and  racers  to  those  big,  honest, 
comprehending,  uncomplaining  creatures  that  drag 
drays.  But  I  have  a  notion  that  most  of  them  are 
like  you  and  me. 

What  are  we  like,  though?  If  we  happen  to  be 
like  Greek  gods — which  we  don't! — if  we  have  red 
hair  or  vampire  eyes  or  humps  on  our  backs,  if  we 
harpoon  whales  or  compose  operas  or  put  poison  in 
our  mother-in-law's  soup,  it  is  possible  to  make  out 
for  us  a  likely  enough  dossier.  Yet  how  far  does  that 

3 


4  LIKE  MICHAEL 

dossier  go?  It  tells  less  than  a  tintype  at  a  county 
fair.  Vamp  eyes  or  godlike  legs,  even  the  ability  to 
compose  operas,  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  way 
we  react  when  we  inherit  a  billion  dollars  or  lose  our 
last  cent,  when  our  wives  get  on  our  nerves  or  the 
boiler  of  our  ship  blows  up  at  sea.  And  what  on 
earth  are  you  to  say  about  people  like  Michael,  who 
are  neither  tall  nor  short,  fat  nor  thin,  good  nor  bad? 
Or  people  whose  wives  never  get  on  their  nerves  and 
whose  boilers  never  blow  up?  They  have  their 
dossier  all  the  same.  Why  not?  They  do  nine- 
tenths  of  the  work  of  the  world.  They  lay  its  stones 
one  upon  another.  They  commit  their  share  of  its 
follies,  suffer  their  share  of  its  sorrows,  and  pay 
more  than  their  share  of  the  bill. 

What  was  Michael  like?  My  good  man,  you  loll 
there  with  your  ungodlike  leg  over  the  arm  of  your 
chair  and  you  blandly  propose  to  me  the  ultimate 
problem  of  art!  One  would  think  you  were  Flaubert 
— or  was  he  Guy  de  Maupassant? — who  made  it  out 
possible  to  tell,  in  words  that  have  neither  line  nor 
colour,  that  are  gone  as  soon  as  you  have  spoken 
them,  how  one  grocer  sitting  in  his  door  differs  from 
all  other  grocers  sitting  in  doors.  I  have  spent  hours, 
I  have  lost  nights,  over  that  wretched  grocer;  and 
I  haven't  learned  any  more  about  him  than  when  I 
began:  except  to  suspect  that  Maupassant — or  was 
it  Theophile  Gautier? — wanted  to  be  Besnard  and 
Rodin  too.  I  grant  you  that  no  grocer  looks  precisely 
like  another.  But  that  isn't  Maupassant's  business 


LIKE  MICHAEL  5 

— to  tell  how  a  grocer  looks.  The  thing  simply  can't 
be  done.  Nor  is  it  enough  for  your  grocer  to  sit  in 
his  door.  He  must  say  something,  he  must  do  some 
thing,  or  words  won't  catch  him.  And  then  how  do 
you  know  why  he  said  or  did  that  particular  thing, 
or  what  he  would  say  or  do  at  another  time? 

And  you  have  the  courage  to  ask  me,  between  two 
whiffs  of  a  cigarette,  what  Michael  was  like!  How 
the  deuce  do  I  know?  I  never  had  anything  parti 
cular  to  do  with  him.  He  was  like  fifty  million  other 
people  with  lightish  hair  and  darkish  eyes  and  young 
ish  tastes,  whom  neither  their  neighbours  nor  their 
inner  devil  have  beaten  into  distinction.  If  I  tried 
to  tell  you  what  a  man  like  that  is  like,  I  would  land 
you  in  more  volumes  than  "Jean  Christophe."  I  can 
only  tell  you  what  he  was  like  at  two  very  different 
moments  of  his  life,  in  two  entirely  different  places. 

Perhaps  you  are  naturalist  enough  to  construct 
the  rest  of  him  out  of  that.  I,  for  one,  am  not.  But 
it's  astounding  how  little  we  know  about  people, 
really,  and  how  childishly  we  expect  miracles  of 
each  newcomer.  It  isn't  as  if  anybody  ever  did 
anything  new.  How  can  they?  Nobody  is  radically 
different  from  anybody  else.  The  only  thing  is  that 
some  of  us  are  a  little  harder  or  a  little  softer,  some 
of  us  are  longer-winded  or  shorter-winded,  some  of 
us  see  better  out  of  our  eyes  or  have  less  idea  what 
to  do  with  our  hands.  That  isn't  all,  though.  There 
are  other  things,  outside  of  us,  for  which  we  are 
neither  to  blame  nor  to  praise — the  houses  we  hap- 


6  LIKE  MICHAEL 

pen  to  be  born  in,  the  winds  that  blow  us,  arrows 
that  fly  by  day  and  terrors  that  walk  by  night.  And 
then  there  are  other  people.  They  come,  they  go, 
they  get  ideas  into  their  heads,  they  put  ideas  into 
ours.  It  may  be  pure  bull  luck  whether  you  are  a 
grocer  sitting  in  your  door  for  a  Maupassant  to 
scratch  his  head  over,  or  something  more — definite, 
shall  we  say? 

Michael,  now:  why  should  a  man  like  that  dis 
appear?  Would  you  disappear?  Would  I  dis 
appear?  Why  on  earth  should  Michael  have  dis 
appeared?  Surely  not  for  the  few  thousand  dollars 
that  disappeared  at  the  same  time.  Nothing  was 
the  matter  with  him.  He  had  a  good  enough  job. 
He  was  married  to  a  nice  enough  girl.  He  would 
have  prospered  and  grown  fat  and  begotten  a  little 
Michael  or  two  to  follow  in  his  footsteps.  But  those 
reaping  and  binding  people  take  it  into  their  heads 
to  send  him  over  there,  and  he  suddenly  vanishes 
like  a  collar-button  in  a  crack.  And  we  all  make  a 
terrific  hullabaloo  about  it — when  the  thing  to  make 
a  hullabaloo  about  is  that  one  man  may  get  all 
geography  to  reap  and  bind  in,  while  another  may 
never  get  outside  his  valley. 

The  thing  in  itself  was  infinitely  simpler  than  one 
of  Michael's  confounded  reapers  and  binders. 

II 

I  suppose  you  know  Aurora — Mrs.  Michael  as 
was?  I  began  stepping  on  her  toes  at  dances  twenty 


LIKE  MICHAEL  7 

years  ago,  and  I  believe  I  could  tell  you  what  she  is 
like.  This  country  is  a  factory  of  Auroras.  Dozens 
of  her  pass  under  that  window  every  day,  all  turned 
out  to  sample  as  if  by  machinery,  all  run  by  the  same 
interior  clockwork,  all  well  made,  well  dressed,  well 
educated — in  the  American  sense;  also  well  able  to 
milk  a  cow  or  to  carry  one  on  their  backs,  but  prefer 
ring  to  harangue  clubs  all  day,  to  dance  all  night,  in 
any  case  to  circumvent  the  ingenuity  of  life  in  play 
ing  us  nasty  tricks.  They  won't  do  anything  they 
don't  like,  and  they  shut  their  eyes  to  the  dark  o' 
the  moon. 

Just  what  Aurora  wanted  of  Michael,  I  can't  say. 
As  the  poet  hath  it,  there  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of 
women  which,  taken  at  the  flood,  leads  God  knows 
where.  But  these  things  are  not  so  awfully  myste 
rious.  There  was  a  period  in  Aurora's  history  when, 
it  being  reported  to  her  that  the  simple  Michael  had 
likened  her  eyes  to  Japanese  lanterns,  she  was  not 
displeased.  And  I  have  been  told  on  the  best  author 
ity  that  even  a  suffragette  may  not  be  averse  to 
having  her  hand  held.  Whether  Michael  first 
grabbed  Aurora's  or  whether  Aurora  first  grabbed 
Michael's  doesn't  much  matter.  There  came  a  later 
period  when  they  were  both  able  to  recall  that  his 
toric  event  with  considerable  detachment. 

Aurora  likewise  lived  to  learn  that  there  are  other 
ways  of  circumventing  the  tricks  of  life  than  by 
reaping  and  binding.  She  thirsted  for  higher  things, 
for  wider  horizons,  than  those  of  Zerbetta,  Ohio. 


8  LIKE  MICHAEL 

Above  all  human  trophies  she  burned  for  two  which 
cohabit  not  too  readily  under  one  roof — Culture  and 
Romance.  So  when  Michael  was  unexpectedly  or 
dered  to  the  East  she  accompanied  him  only  as  far 
as  Paris. 

My  relations  with  her,  I  regret  to  say,  were  such 
that  she  did  not  confide  to  me  what  she  thought  when 
Michael  failed  to  turn  up  again.  You  can  easily 
perceive,  however,  that  Michael  translated,  Michael 
probably  murdered,  Michael  made,  at  all  events, 
for  once  in  his  life,  mysterious,  was  a  very  different 
pair  of  sleeves  from  the  Michael  she  had  not  con 
sidered  important  enough  to  see  off  on  his  Orient 
Express.  Aurora  was  never  the  one  to  miss  that. 
It  put  her  in  the  papers.  It  made  her  a  heroine.  It 
invested  her  with  the  romance  for  which  she  yearned. 
It  also  invested  her  with  extremely  becoming  mourn 
ing.  Yet  I  fancied  once  or  twice  that  I  detected  in 
her  a  shade  of  annoyance.  She  was  capable  of  choos 
ing  an  occultist  for  her  second  husband,  but  in  the 
bottom  of  her  heart  she  hated  people  to  be  as  indefi 
nite  as  Michael.  She  naturally  did  not  like,  either, 
a  rumour  of  which  she  had  caught  echoes,  that 
Michael  had  run  away  from  her. 

Well,  when  Aurora  heard  that  I  was  going  to 
Constantinople,  she  asked  me  to  find  out  what  I 
could.  It  was  quite  a  bit  afterward,  you  know,  and 
she  had  already  entered  the  holy  bonds  of  wedlock 
with  her  occultist.  But  she  couldn't  quite  get  over 
that  exasperating  indefiniteness  of  Michael's.  She 


LIKE  MICHAEL  9 

wanted  to  put  a  tangible  tombstone  over  him — with 
a  quatrain  of  her  own  composition,  and  the  occul 
tist's  symbol  of  the  macrocosm.  Wayne,  too — 
Michael's  uncle,  and  one  of  the  reaping  and  binding 
partners — suggested  that  I  quietly  look  about  once 
more.  What  the  partners  principally  minded,  of 
course,  was  their  money.  Yet  it  wasn't  such  a  huge 
sum,  and  Michael  really  did  them  a  good  turn  after 
all,  the  ironic  dog.  They  could  well  afford  the  fat 
reward  they  offered.  They  got  no  end  of  free  adver 
tising,  you  know,  what  with  the  fuss  the  State  De 
partment  made,  and  all.  People  who  had  sat  in 
darkness  all  their  lives,  never  having  heard  of  a 
reaper  and  binder,  suddenly  saw  a  great  light  when 
the  Bosphorus  was  dragged  and  Thrace  and  Asia 
Minor  sifted  for  an  obscure  agent  of  reapers  and 
binders. 

Such  are  the  advantages  of  getting  yourself  robbed 
and  murdered,  as  compared  to  those  of  working  your 
head  off  to  keep  your  job.  Michael,  to  be  sure — I 
ended  by  finding  out  all  about  Michael,  long  after 
I  had  given  him  up.  It  was  nothing  but  an  accident. 
I  wonder,  though,  that  we  go  on  believing  there's 
anything  in  this  world  except  accident.  And  the 
beauty  of  this  accident  is  that  I  can't  claim 
that  reward  I  need  so  much — one  of  the  beauties. 
It  was  altogether,  for  Aurora  and  Michael  even 
more  than  for  me,  such  a  characteristic  case  of 
missing  what  you  look  for  and  finding  what  you 
don't. 


10  LIKE  MICHAEL 

I  never  told  Wayne.  I  never  told  Aurora.  I 
never  intended  to  tell  you.  Another  accident!  But 
isn't  it  aggravating  how  one's  best  stories  always 
have  to  be  kept  dark? 

Ill 

So  the  romantic  Aurora,  as  I  told  you,  sat  in  Paris 
like  a  true  American  wife,  inviting  her  soul  in  the 
Louvre — both  mus£e  and  magasins — while  the  hum 
drum  Michael  set  forth  for  that  bourne  whence  he 
was  not  to  return,  with  his  reaper  and  binder  under 
his  arm.  What  he  did  with  it  doesn't  matter.  In 
fact  I  believe  he  did  very  little  with  it.  He  wasn't 
born  to  reaping  and  binding.  Reaping  and  binding 
had  been  thrust  upon  him — by  the  uncle  to  whom 
he  applied  at  a  desperate  moment  for  a  job.  Like 
most  of  us,  you  see,  he  didn't  know  what  he  wanted. 
I'm  not  sure  he  ever  found  out.  Aurora,  however, 
must  have  helped  him  in  a  back-handed  way  to  find 
out  that  he  hadn't  got  what  he  wanted.  And  so  did 
that  sudden  journey  of  his.  He  had  never  been 
anywhere  before  in  his  life. 

I  make  fun  of  poor  Aurora,  who  after  all  had  per 
haps  divined  in  poor  Michael,  at  the  flood  of  her 
tide,  what  she  was  really  after.  But  I  found  it 
rather  quaint,  I  must  confess,  that  he,  the  reaper  and 
binder  of  Zerbetta,  Ohio,  should  be  caught  by  Stam- 
bul.  Yet  why  not?  I  myself  am  unaccountably 
moved  by  reapers  and  binders,  by  motors  and  dyna 
mos  and  steam  engines,  by  all  manner  of  human 


LIKE  MICHAEL  11 

ingenuities  of  which  I  know  nothing  and  could  never 
learn  anything.  Why  should  not  Michael  have  been 
moved  by  things  as  foreign  to  him?  Moreover  has 
there  not  always  been  in  the  Anglo-Saxon  some  un 
easy  little  chord  that  has  made  him  the  wanderer 
and  camper-out  of  the  earth,  that  nothing  can  twitch 
like  the  East? 

Michael  took  an  astonishing  fancy  to  that  bumpy 
old  place,  and  to  those  mangy  dogs  and  those  fantas 
tic  smells  and  those  inconvenient  costumes  and  those 
dusty  Bazaars  and  all  the  trash  that  is  in  them.  He 
bought  quantities  of  it.  Rugs  and  brasses  and  I 
don't  know  what  uncannily  kept  turning  up  long 
after  he  had  dropped  through  his  crack.  Aurora 
received  them  tearfully  as  tributes  to  herself,  and  I 
believe  they  paved  the  way  for  her  next  experiment. 
Michael's  successor  is  an  antiquary  as  well  as  an 
astrologer,  and  he  keeps  an  occult  junk-shop  on  a 
top  floor  in  Union  Square. 

That  junk,  as  it  happened,  was  just  what  played 
so  fateful  a  part  in  Michael's  adventure.  He  bought 
a  good  deal  of  it  from  a  certain  antiquity  man  who 
knew  English  better  than  any  one  else  Michael  ran 
across  in  the  Bazaars.  Finding  Michael  a  promising 
customer,  the  antiquity  man  said  he  had  better  stuff 
stored  away  in  a  khan  outside  the  Bazaars.  And 
Michael,  of  course,  was  delighted  to  go  and  look  at 
it.  Do  you  wonder? 

The  khan  was  one  of  those  old  stone  houses  in 
Mahmud  Pasha  that  have  a  Byzantine  look  about 


12  LIKE  MICHAEL 

them,  with  their  string-courses  of  flat  bricks,  the 
heavy  stone  brackets  of  their  projecting  upper  sto 
reys,  the  solid  iron  cages  of  their  windows,  and  their 
arched  tunnels  leading  into  courts  within  courts, 
where  grape-vines  grow  and  rugs  lie  fading  in  the 
sun.  The  antiquity  man  took  Michael  up  some 
stone  stairs  into  one  of  the  galleries  overlooking  a 
court,  and  then  into  a  series  of  dirty  little  stone 
rooms  full  of  all  sorts  of  queer-looking  boxes  and 
bundles.  And  some  of  the  boxes  and  bundles  were 
opened  with  great  ceremony,  and  Rhodian  plates 
were  brought  forth  for  Michael  to  admire — Persian 
tiles,  Byzantine  enamels —  You  know  the  sort  of 
thing. 

Michael,  our  reaper  and  binder,  liked  it.  I  can't 
say  how  intelligently  he  liked  it;  but  he  had  dis 
covered  a  new  world,  and  he  liked  it  well  enough  to 
go  back  again  and  again.  I  must  confess  that  I 
don't  recollect  very  much  about  it,  myself.  I  do 
remember,  though,  that  the  most  outlandish-looking 
people — Greeks,  Jews,  Armenians,  Persians,  Tar 
tars,  Heaven  knows  who — carry  on  outlandish-look 
ing  activities  there.  Any  number  of  forges  and 
blow-pipes  flare  in  those  dark  stone  rooms,  where 
goldsmiths  and  silversmiths  make  charms,  amulets, 
reliquaries,  little  Virgins  to  hang  around  your  neck, 
little  votive  hands  and  feet  to  hang  on  icons,  silver 
rings  for  Turks  who  think  it  wicked  to  wear  gold, 
and  filigree  chains,  pendants,  and  lamps  in  the 
Byzantine  tradition.  That's  where  most  of  the  an- 


LIKE  MICHAEL  13 

tiques  sold  in  the  Bazaars  come  from.  And  devilishly 
well-made  a  lot  of  them  are,  too.  I  know  a  Byzan 
tine  gold  chalice  in  a  museum  in  England,  decor 
ated  with  St.  Georges  of  the  tenth  century,  that 
came  out  of  that  khan  not  twenty  years  ago!  Ad 
mirable  coins  and  gems  come  from  there  too,  to  say 
nothing  of  Tanagra  figurines.  Did  you  ever  hear  of 
a  Chalcedonian  figurine?  Not  many  other  people 
have,  either.  But  plenty  of  real  ones  used  to  be  dug 
up  on  the  Asiatic  side  of  the  Bosphorus;  and  clever 
Greek  potters  copy  them  and  rename  them  for  tour 
ists.  However,  it  isn't  all  fake.  There  are  real  art 
ists  in  those  dark  little  stone  rooms.  And  there  are 
real  antiques — some  of  them  stored  away,  some  of 
them  undergoing  a  final  dilapidation  to  suit  them  for 
the  critical  eye  of  fake  collectors. 

Michael  liked  it  all  so  much  that  he  spent  more 
time  in  that  extraordinary  maze  than  was  good  for 
his  reapers  and  binders.  The  people  got  to  know 
him  by  sight,  and  they  let  him  rummage  around  by 
himself. 

IV 

He  turned  up  one  afternoon  to  look  at  some  pot 
tery,  and  the  antiquity  man  happened  to  be  out. 
Michael  was  therefore  given  coffee  and  left  more  or 
less  to  his  own  devices.  Nobody  could  talk  to  him, 
you  see,  and  the  antiquity  man  was  coming  back. 

Michael  prowled  mildly  about,  finding  nothing 
much  to  look  at  but  packing-cases  and  kerosene  tins 


14  LIKE  MICHAEL 

— those  big  rectangular  ones  that  everybody  in  the 
Levant  hoards  like  gold.  He  presently  recognised, 
however,  on  top  of  a  pile  of  boxes,  a  basket  that  he 
had  seen  at  the  antiquity  man's  shop  in  the  Bazaars 
— a  basket,  with  an  odd  little  red  figure  in  the  wicker, 
containing  embroideries.  He  managed  to  get  it 
down,  and  found  it  unexpectedly  heavy.  It  turned 
out  to  be  full  this  time  of  broken  tiles.  He  poked 
them  over.  Each  bit  was  worth  something — for  a 
flower  on  it,  or  an  Arabic  letter,  or  a  glint  of  Persian 
lustre.  But  as  he  poked  down  through  them,  what 
should  he  come  across  but  some  funny-looking  metal 
things:  some  round,  some  square,  some  with  clock 
work  fastened  to  them.  It  suddenly  occurred  to  him 
to  wonder  if  bombs  looked  like  that!  He  proceeded, 
very  gingerly,  to  replace  the  bits  of  tile. 

Just  then  he  became  aware  that  the  antiquity  man 
had  come  in  quietly  and  was  looking  at  him. 

"What  the  devil  have  you  got  here?"  asked 
Michael,  with  a  laugh.  "An  ammunition  factory?" 

The  antiquity  man  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
smiled. 

"I  have  better  than  that.  I  have  a  Rhages  jar 
for  you  to  look  at,  if  you  will  come  this  way." 

A  Rhages  jar!  I  don't  suppose  Michael  had  ever 
until  that  moment  heard  of  a  Rhages  jar.  However, 
he  followed  the  antiquity  man  into  another  room 
even  more  crowded  with  boxes  and  tins;  and  there, 
to  be  sure,  the  Rhages  jar  was  put  into  his  hands. 
But  the  place  was  so  dark  he  could  hardly  see  it. 


LIKE  MICHAEL  15 

"  If  you  will  excuse  me  another  moment,"  said  the 
antiquity  man,  "I  will  get  a  light." 

He  was  gone,  as  he  said,  only  a  moment.  When  he 
came  back  a  servant  followed  him,  carrying  a  candle 
— a  big  porter  whom  Michael  already  knew  by  sight, 
in  baggy  blue  clothes  and  a  red  girdle.  Michael 
nodded  to  him,  and  the  man  salaamed.  Then  the 
antiquity  man  pointed  out  to  Michael,  by  the  light 
of  the  candle,  the  beauties  of  the  Rhages  jar.  As  he 
did  so  another  man  came  in,  an  older  man  with  a 
grizzled  beard.  He  gravely  saluted  Michael  and 
took  the  candle  from  the  porter,  who  went  out.  The 
porter  very  soon  returned,  however.  This  time  he 
carried  a  tray  on  which  was  one  of  those  handleless 
little  cups  of  Turkish  coffee  in  a  holder  of  filigree 
silver.  The  antiquity  man  set  down  the  Rhages  jar. 

"Won't  you  have  a  cup  of  coffee?"  he  said,  mak 
ing  a  sign  to  the  porter. 

"No,  thank  you,"  replied  Michael.  That  was  one 
thing  about  Stambul  he  didn't  altogether  like — that 
eternal  sipping  of  muddy  coffee. 

"Oh,  but  just  one!"  insisted  the  antiquity  man. 
"Why  not?" 

"I've  had  one  already,"  answered  Michael.  "I'm 
not  used  to  it,  you  know.  It  keeps  me  awake." 

The  antiquity  man  smiled  a  little. 

"But  not  this  coffee,"  he  said.  "I  think  you  will 
find  that  it  does  not  keep  you  awake." 

It  began  to  come  over  Michael  that  there  was 
more  than  the  coffee  which  he  didn't  like.  Was  it 


16  LIKE  MICHAEL 

the  air  in  that  stuffy  dark  little  stone  room?  Was  it 
the  way  in  which  the  three  men  looked  at  him?  Was 
it  that  basket  of  broken  tiles? 

" No  thanks/'  he  said.  And  he  added:  "Let's  go 
out  where  we  can  see.  It's  too  hot  in  here,  too." 

He  looked  around  for  the  door.  He  couldn't  see 
it  from  where  he  stood.  The  antiquity  man  said 
something,  and  the  porter  stood  aside.  Michael 
stepped  past  him,  around  some  big  boxes.  The  door 
was  there.  Michael  suddenly  heard  it  click;  but  in 
front  of  it  a  fourth  man  stood  in  the  shadow.  He  did 
not  move  when  Michael  stepped  forward.  He  stood 
there  in  front  of  the  door,  with  his  hands  in  his  coat 
pockets.  Michael  was  quite  sure  he  didn't  like  that. 

"Pardon"  he  said,  "I  want  to  go  out." 

The  man  shook  his  head.  At  a  word  from  the  an 
tiquity  man,  however,  he  moved  aside,  keeping  his 
hands  in  his  pockets.  Michael  reached  out  for  the 
door.  It  was  locked. 

He  liked  that  least  of  all.  He  had  a  sudden  im 
pulse  to  pound  the  door,  the  man  beside  him.  Yet 
the  next  moment  he  was  ashamed  of  it.  He  turned 
around.  The  others  had  come  forward,  around  the 
boxes — the  antiquity  man,  the  big  porter  with  the 
tray,  the  old  man  carrying  the  candle.  In  the  light 
of  it  Michael  looked  at  the  other  one,  the  one  who 
had  shut  the  door.  He  was  young  and  very  dark, 
with  a  scar  across  his  chin.  Michael  looked  at  them 
all.  What  in  the  world  had  come  over  them?  Could 
it  be  that  they  took  that  basket  of  tiles  too  seriously? 


LIKE  MICHAEL  17 

Could  it  be  that  they,  too,  were  not  what  they 
seemed,  that  under  their  first  friendliness  were  black 
and  uncanny  things?  All  the  old  wives'  tales  that 
Westerners  hear  of  the  East  came  vaguely,  yet  dis- 
quietingly,  back  to  him.  It  was  with  an  effort  that 
he  folded  his  arms  and  turned  to  the  antiquity  man. 

"Your  methods  of  doing  business,"  he  remarked, 
"strike  me  as  being  rather  peculiar." 

"It  is  a  peculiar  business,"  said  the  antiquity 
man. 

"Is  it  your  idea  that  people  should  be  forced  to 
buy  Rhages  jars  whether  they  want  them  or  not?" 

"The  Rhages  jar  is  not  for  sale,"  replied  the  an 
tiquity  man. 

"0!"  exclaimed  Michael.  "Then  what  is  the 
matter?  What  are  you  after?" 

"Not  your  money,"  said  the  antiquity  man. 
"Please  believe  that,  sir.  And  please  believe  that 
we  are  very  sorry.  It  is — what  shall  I  say? — what 
we  call  here  kismet,  fate.  If  you  had  not  chanced  to 
notice  that  basket,  if  you  had  not  taken  it  down  and 
examined  it,  nothing  would  have  happened." 

"What  have  I  to  do  with  that?  "  burst  out  Michael. 
"Is  it  my  fault  if  you  put  baskets  where  people  can 
see  them  and  then  go  away?  Am  I  responsible  for 
your  carelessness?" 

"Your  question,  sir,  is  unfortunately  most  just. 
But  that  is  a  part  of  the  kismet — that  having  been 
careless  ourselves,  we  are  obliged  to  make  you  pay 
for  it." 


18  LIKE  MICHAEL 

"Well,  how  am  I  going  to  pay?"  demanded 
Michael.  "Spend  the  rest  of  my  life  in  here?" 

The  antiquity  man  hesitated  before  answering. 

"Yes,  sir,"  he  said  at  last,  softly.  And  he  added: 
"Will  you  have  your  coffee  now?" 

Michael  could  hardly  take  it  in.  What  did  the  fel 
low  mean?  Then  something  in  the  way  the  antiquity 
man  looked  at  him  made  him  remember  about  the 
coffee — that  it  would  not  keep  him  awake.  For  thex 
life  of  him  he  could  not  help  glancing  down  at  it. 
How  was  it  that  he  didn't  happen  to  drink  it  when 
they  first  brought  it  in?  And  if  he  had —  He  stared 
at  the  stuff  in  its  pretty  silver  holder.  Behind  it 
something  bright  caught  a  flicker  from  the  candle — 
a  knife  in  the  porter's  girdle.  Why  not?  They  all 
carried  them.  Yet  his  eye  travelled  to  the  pocket  of 
the  dark  young  man  by  the  door.  All  of  a  sudden 
Michael  knew  as  well  as  if  he  saw  it  that  there  was 
a  revolver  in  that  pocket,  and  that  the  young  man 
had  his  finger  on  the  trigger.  Michael's  eyes  travelled 
on,  up  to  the  eyes  of  the  young  man,  to  the  eyes  of 
them  all.  What  strange,  glistening,  dark  eyes  they 
all  had,  too  dark  to  see  into!  He  found  all  of  a  sud 
den  that  he  felt  a  little  cold.  He  was  even  afraid  for 
a  moment  that  he  was  going  to  tremble.  .  . 

What  really  preoccupied  him,  though,  was  how 
the  thing  had  happened.  How  could  such  a  thing 
happen  so  suddenly?  It  had  all  been  perfectly  sim 
ple  and  natural— his  work  for  his  firm,  his  journey 
abroad,  his  coming  to  Constantinople,  his  prowling 


LIKE  MICHAEL  19 

t 

in  the  Bazaars,  his  happening  to  buy  a  gimcrack  of 
the  antiquity  man,  his  introduction  to  this  queer  old 
place,  his  pawing  over  those  broken  tiles.  It  was  all 
so  simple.  It  would,  at  any  step,  have  been  so  easy  to 
avoid.  And  it  was  so  unjust,  it  was  so  fantastically 
unjust.  How  could  things  end  as  incredibly  as  that? 
How  could  he  let  them  end  like  that?  He  was  one, 
and  they  were  four;  and  they  were  armed,  and  he  was 
not.  But  he  wouldn't  take  it  sitting  down.  The 
Anglo-Saxon  in  him  stiffened  his  back  and  set  his 
teeth.  He  began  looking  around  stealthily,  at  the 
bare  stone  walls,  at  the  littered  floor,  for  something 
to  get  hold  of.  He  would  show  them  yet.  .  . 

"You  must  not  think,"  said  the  antiquity  man, 
"that  we  have  no  sympathy  for  your  position.  But 
do  not  think,  either,  that  any — any  display  of  the 
emotions  will  help  you.  No  one  can  possibly  hear." 

That  was  the  moment  when  Michael  found  it 
hardest  to  keep  his  head.  If  he  had  been  a  little 
younger  he  probably  would  not  have  kept  his  head. 
"Display  of  the  emotions"!  But  he  realised  at  last 
that  for  some  incomprehensible  reason  they  meant 
business.  He  hoped  his  emotions  did  not  display 
themselves  in  his  voice. 

"Look  here,"  he  said.  "I  see  you  aren't  pick 
pockets,  and  I  see  that  by  accident  I  have  discovered 
something  you  do  not  wish  known.  Well,  if  you  had 
kept  quiet  I  might  never  have  thought  of  that  basket 
again.  Or  I  might  now  try  to  buy  your  Rhages  jar — • 
for  any  figure  you  might  name.  As  it  is,  I  give  you 


20  LIKE  MICHAEL 

my  word  of  honour  that  never  so  long  as  I  live  will  I 
breathe  a  word  to  any  human  being.  You  know  me. 
Don't  you  believe  what  I  say?  But  if  you  don't  I 
will  sign  my  name  to  any  document  you  care  to  draw 
up.  If  you  ever  hear  of  my  breaking  my  word,  I  am 
willing  to  take  the  consequences." 

At  this  the  old  man  spoke  for  the  first  time. 
Michael  could  not  understand  what  he  said.  He  did 
not  even  recognise  the  language  in  which  the  old 
man  spoke.  He  had  a  curiously  deep  voice.  The 
antiquity  man  answered  incomprehensibly.  Then 
he  turned  back  to  Michael: 

"I  do  believe  what  you  say.  I  do  not  question 
your  word  of  honour.  But,  unfortunately,  we  cannot 
take  any  chances — even  the  most  remote.  And  im 
pressions,  you  know,  even  the  strongest  of  them, 
like  love  and  grief,  have  a  way  of  losing  their  force. 
Suppose  we  let  you  go.  There  might  come  very 
naturally  a  time  when  your  recollections  of  this  in 
cident  would  lose  their  intensity,  or  when  you  would 
regard  your  promise  as  less  important  than  you  do 
now.  Why  not?  Life  is  like  that.  Life  would  be 
intolerable  if  it  were  not  like  that.  Things  happen, 
and  then  other  things  happen.  I  have  not  the  honour 
of  any  great  acquaintance  with  you,  but  it  is  con 
ceivable  that  you  might  sometime  be  offered  wine 
which  you  could  not  refuse,  or  that  a  beautiful 
woman  might  make  an  impression  on  you,  or  that  a 
company  of  distinguished  men  might  be  relating  in 
teresting  experiences;  and  before  you  knew  it  the 


LIKE  MICHAEL  21 

story  of  this  afternoon  would  slip  from  you.  Or  you 
might  dream  aloud.  You  might  have  a  fever.  These 
possibilities,  I  admit,  are  very  remote,  or  the  proba 
bility  of  any  harm  resulting  to  us.  Still,  you  never 
can  tell.  Stories  have  a  strange  way  of  travelling. 
Sometimes  they  travel  from  New  York  to  Constan 
tinople.  We  have  known  cases.  For  that  reason  we 
— have  prepared  that  cup  of  coffee.  We  must  secure 
ourselves  against  one  chance  in  a  thousand." 

Michael  saw  it.  He  was  like  that.  He  had  that 
fatal  little  flaw  of  the  artist,  of  being  able  to  see  the 
other  side.  He  saw  it  then  as  distinctly  as  he  saw 
the  four  dark  faces,  the  candle  burning  quietly  in  the 
dark  little  room,  the  dark  shapes  and  shadows  of  the 
boxes.  He  wondered  what  dark  strange  thing  was 
hidden  here — that  meant  so  much  to  these  men.  He 
wondered  about  the  men  themselves,  whom  he  had 
taken  so  casually. 

"Your  life,  of  course,"  the  antiquity  man  went  on, 
"is  very  precious  to  you.  That  we  perfectly  under 
stand.  While  life  is  seldom  satisfactory,  it  contains, 
after  all,  a  great  deal  for  one  still  as  young  as  you. 
And  one  always  hopes — often  with  reason.  We  ask 
you  to  believe  that  we  understand  that.  We  also  ask 
you  to  believe  that  no  one  of  us  has  any  personal 
reason  for  wishing  you  harm.  We  excessively  regret 
the  necessity  of  asking  you  to  drink  that  cup  of  coffee. 
We  shall  continue  all  our  lives  to  regret  it.  Never 
theless,  you  can  perhaps  understand  that  there  may 
be  reasons  why  even  your  life  is  of  less  moment  to  us 


22  LIKE  MICHAEL 

than  the  possibility  of  your  some  day  forgetting  for 
an  instant  the  promise  you  now  so  sincerely  make." 

Michael  still  saw  it.  He  saw,  too,  what  had  been 
growing  steadily  clearer,  that  this  was  an  antiquity 
man  among  antiquity  men.  But  what  he  saw  best 
of  all,  through  that  portentous  candle-light,  was  a 
sudden  mirage  of  the  summer  sun — out  of  which 
he  had  stepped  so  lightly.  He  saw  it  so  vividly  that 
his  voice  had  in  it  a  thickness  he  didn't  like: 

"I  understand.  But  there  are  chances  and 
chances.  For  instance,  can  a  man  disappear  like 
that,  even  in  Constantinople,  and  no  questions  be 
asked?  When  I  fail  to  go  back  to  my  hotel,  to  pay 
my  bill,  will  they  say  nothing?  When  I  fail  to  go 
back  to  my  country  will  my  friends  say  nothing?  Of 
course  not!  There  will  be  a  row.  It  may  not  be  to 
morrow,  it  may  not  be  the  next  day.  I  do  not  pre 
tend  to  be  a  person  of  importance.  But  sooner  or 
later  questions  will  be  asked.  And  sooner  or  later 
you  will  have  to  answer  some  of  them.  What  will 
you  say  then?" 

"We  have  thought  of  that,"  answered  the  an 
tiquity  man.  "We  can  see  that  if  it  is  dangerous  to 
let  you  go  from  here,  it  is  also  dangerous  to  let  others 
come  to  look  for  you  here.  But  by  the  time  they 
come,  they  will  at  least  find  no  baskets  of  broken 
tiles."  He  gave  Michael  a  moment  in  which  to  take 
it  in.  "  If  the  matter  be  at  last  traced  to  us,  it  will 
be  a  simple  one  of  robbery  and  murder.  For  that 
reason  we  shall  have  to  keep  whatever  valuables  you 


LIKE  MICHAEL  23 

may  have.  We  are  very  sorry  that  we  shall  not  be 
able  to  send  them  back  to  your  family." 

"My  money  belongs  to  my  firm,  not  to  my  fam 
ily,"  protested  Michael.  "If  you  keep  it,  you  will 
take  not  only  my  life,  but  my  honour.  It  certainly 
will  not  be  to  your  interest  to  prevent  them  from 
thinking  that  I  have  stolen  it  and  run  away." 

"  You  are  right,"  replied  the  antiquity  man.  "  But 
I  do  not  need  to  tell  you  that  human  actions  are  usu 
ally  misunderstood.  Even  you,  perhaps,  do  not  un 
derstand  that  our  own  motive  is  not  an  interested 
one.  There  is  only  One  who  understands.  I  may 
point  out  to  you,  however,  that  we  run  the  risk  of 
suffering  from  a  similar  imputation.  It  will  proba 
bly  be  thought  that  we  have  killed  you  for  your 
money.  And  you  must  realise  that  in  that  case  I, 
perhaps  all  of  us,  stand  an  excellent  chance  of  follow 
ing  you — wherever  you  go.  But  that  chance  we  take 
more  willingly  than  the  other." 

He  said  it  simply,  without  gestures,  without  airs. 
Michael  could  not  help  seeing  it  and  rising  to  it.  He 
even  could  not  help  liking  the  antiquity  man.  Evi 
dently  it  was  not  a  common  affair  in  which  he  had 
happened  to  tangle  himself.  .  . 

He  saw  it,  but  somehow  he  felt  his  sense  of  reality 
slipping.  He  had  often  wondered,  vaguely  enough, 
as  one  does  when  the  sun  is  warm  about  one  and  the 
end  of  life  is  very  far  off  and  incredible,  what  the  end 
of  life  would  be  like — how  it  could  come,  whether  he 
would  make  a  fool  of  himself.  But  of  all  the  possi- 


24  LIKE  MICHAEL 

bilities  he  had  imagined,  he  had  never  imagined  this 
little  stone  room  in  Stambul,  and  this  candle,  and 
these  shadows,  and  these  four  inscrutable  dark  faces 
of  men  whom  he  did  not  know.  Was  he  making  a 
fool  of  himself  now  to  say,  as  he  did,  thickly: 

"Give  me  your  cup  of  coffee."  He  tried  to  clear 
his  throat.  "But  you  might  at  least  tell  me  first 
what  all  this  fuss  is  about.  Or  are  you  afraid  I  shall 
tell  them  in  the  next  world?" 

He  saw  a  light  in  the  antiquity  man's  eye.  The 
old  man  saw  it,  too.  There  ensued  a  conversation 
between  them,  in  which  the  young  man,  his  hand 
still  in  his  pocket,  joined.  The  porter  stood  statu 
esque,  with  his  tray  of  poisoned  coffee.  Michael,  left 
to  himself,  began  to  feel  his  sense  of  reality  come 
back. 

"Look  here/'  he  said,  "my  coffee  is  getting 
cold." 

The  antiquity  man  smiled. 

"My  friend  here" — he  pointed  to  the  old  man — 
"has  made  a  suggestion.  He  seems  to  have  taken  a 
fancy  to  you.  In  fact  I  may  assure  you  that  we  are  all 
pleased  at  the  way  you  have  received  the  very 
disagreeable  things  we  have  unfortunately  had  to 
say  to  you.  Some  men,  in  the  circumstances, 
would  have  been  abject.  You  might  have  begged, 
bribed,  wept,  fainted,  what  do  I  know?  We  have 
seen —  And  we  feel  sure,  as  we  did  not  at  first, 
that  you  did  not  come  here  on  purpose  to  fiud— 
that  basket  of  tiles." 


LIKE  MICHAEL  25 

He  narrowed  his  eyes  a  little  as  he  looked  at 
Michael,  making  another  of  his  eloquent  pauses. 
Michael  didn't  like  it,  but  he  couldn't  help  asking: 

"Well,  what  is  your  suggestion?" 

"Are  you  willing,"  asked  the  antiquity  man,  slow 
ly,  "to  change  your  religion?" 

"Change  my  religion?"  echoed  Michael,  uncom- 
prehendingly.  "I'm  afraid  I  haven't  much  religion 
to  change." 

"All  the  better,"  returned  the  antiquity  man. 
"So  it  is  with  most  people  of  intelligence.  If,  how 
ever,  you  were  willing  to  change  your  religion,  if  you 
were  also  willing  to  change  your  language,  your  name, 
your  home,  your  wife  even,  for  others  as  different 
from  them  as  can  be  conceived,  if  you  could  bring 
yourself  to  make  that  sacrifice  and  to  become  one  of 
us,  it  would  not  be  necessary  for  you  to  drink  that 
cup  of  coffee." 

Michael  saw  it.    He  caught  his  breath.    But — 

"I  must  ask  you  to  decide  quickly,"  continued 
the  antiquity  man.  "We  all  have  affairs.  And  if  it 
should  become  necessary  for  us  to  answer  those 
questions  of  which  you  spoke,  it  would  be  better  for 
witnesses  to  be  able  to  say  that  we  were  not  in  here 
too  long  this  afternoon." 

Michael  saw  that,  too.  And  all  the  blood  in  him 
quickened  at  the  chance  of  life.  Life!  His  life  had 
not  been  such  a  success.  Why  not  wipe  the  slate 
clean  and  start  over  again?  It  ironically  came  to 
him  that  Aurora  would  call  that  romance — to  be 


26  LIKE  MICHAEL 

cornered  here  like  a  rat  in  'a  trap  while  four  men  he 
didn't  know  stared  at  him  with  a  candle!  But  why, 
on  the  other  hand,  should  he  give  in  to  them?  That 
was  cowardice,  even  if  it  was  irony,  too — to  die  for 
what  he  didn't  want  and  didn't  believe  in.  .  . 
The  immensity  of  the  dilemma  was  too  much  for  him. 
Irresistible  force,  immovable  obstacle — that  flashed 
inconsequently  into  his  head.  Was  the  light  going 
out?  The  room  grew  darker.  He  tried  again  to 
clear  his  throat.  It  suddenly  came  to  him  that  he 
didn't  even  know  who  these  people  were,  and  what 
they  wanted  him  to  become.  .  . 

The  antiquity  man  reached  forward,  lifted  the 
coffee-cup  out  of  its  silver  holder,  and  dropped  it  on 
the  stone  floor.  Michael  stared  down  stupidly  at 
the  bits  of  broken  porcelain.  They  were  like  the  bits 
of  broken  tiles.  He  wondered  if  his  trousers  were 
spattered.  .  . 

The  young  man  took  his  hand  out  of  his  pocket 
and  opened  the  door. 


How  do  I  know?  I  don't.  I  only  know  what 
Michael  told  me.  Which  wasn't  much.  He  was  like 
that,  you  see!  Then  he  was  too  mortally  afraid  of 
its  getting  back  here.  He  wouldn't  open  up  as  little 
as  he  did  till  he  heard  Aurora  had  married  again! 
And  here  you  ask  who  and  when  and  where  and  why. 
O  Lord!  If  you  would  only  let  a  man  tell  his  story 
and  stop  when  he  is  through! 


LIKE   MICHAEL  27 

However,  even  you  must  know  that  Constanti 
nople  enjoys  quite  a  reputation  for  liveliness,  of  sorts, 
and  that  it  was  particularly  lively  just  before  and  just 
after  the  German  War.  It  was  then  that  I  got  out 
there,  as  a  courier — while  the  armistice  was  on.  Al 
though  it  was  a  good  bit  after  the  episode  of  the  coffee 
cup,  I  saw  quite  a  number  of  people  who  remembered 
Michael.  Of  course  a  good  many  other  people  and 
things  had  disappeared  since  his  day — including,  I 
suppose,  the  antiquity  man  and  his  bombs.  A  few 
Turks  or  Tartars  might  have  told  me  something 
about  that,  if  they  lived  to  tell  tales.  But  of  course 
I  had  yet  to  hear  about  the  antiquity  man — the  in 
teresting  part  of  him,  I  mean.  And  witnesses  had 
seen  Michael  drive  away  from  the  khan  in  a  closed 
carriage. 

What  no  witness  had  seen  was  the  number  of  the 
carriage,  or  the  door  it  drove  to.  And  they  told  me 
another  yarn  about  a  carriage  driving  full  tilt  at  dusk 
into  the  open  draw  of  the  Bridge.  I  asked  myself  if 
poor  old  Michael  were  still  sitting  in  it.  That  ver 
sion,  at  any  rate,  is  the  one  now  accepted  by  Aurora. 
She  has  given  up  her  tombstone  and  her  quatrain. 
She  perceives  that  it  isn't  every  lady  who  can  boast 
one  husband  at  home  among  the  stars  and  another 
sitting  in  a  brougham  at  the  bottom  of  the  Golden 
Horn. 

So  I  gave  Michael  up.  Perhaps  I  did  it  the  more 
easily  because  there  were  so  many  other  things  to 
think  about:  couriering,  relieving,  reporting — any 


28  LIKE  MICHAEL 

number  of  odd  jobs  connected  with  all  that  mess 
out  there.  They  took  me  hither  and  yon  about  the 
Balkans  and  the  Black  Sea,  on  errands  that  might 
have  sounded  quite  fantastic  before  the  war  plunged 
thousands  of  unsuspecting  people  into  adventures  a 
hundred  times  more  so.  And  one  day  I  landed  in 
Batum. 

Everybody  who  lives  in  Batum  swears  it's  the 
dreariest  hole  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  An  English 
officer  I  met  even  sighed  piteously  to  me  over  the 
lost  delights  of  Aden!  However,  I  found  Batum 
very  amusing,  with  its  higglety-pigglety  air  of  some 
body  having  stirred  up  a  piece  of  Turkey  with  a 
piece  of  Russia  and  having  turned  the  mixture  out 
to  cool  in  a  corner  of  the  Riviera.  To  be  sure,  there 
are  rather  too  many  Georgians  and  Lazzes  and  other 
queer  customers  prowling  around;  and  the  Hotel 
de  France  does  too  little  to  live  up  to  its  name.  Also, 
that  cooling  process  will  evidently  take  time.  But 
the  setting  of  cloudy  white  peaks  and  a  misnamed 
sea  is  quite  worthy  of  the  Riviera.  And  I  must  in 
sist  that  the  Boulevard  is  a  really  perfect  little  park. 
You  should  see  how  close  the  palms  and  the  cypresses 
march  to  the  white  shingle. 

Well,  I  was  warming  a  tin  chair  in  that  park  one 
afternoon,  watching  the  operatic  crowd,  admiring 
the  great  wild  hills  of  their  Caucasus  through  their 
mannered  cypresses,  listening  to  the  incantation  of 
their  Black  Sea  through  their  Glinka,  and  thinking 
of  nothing  in  particular,  when  I  suddenly  made  two 


LIKE  MICHAEL  29 

discoveries.  One  was  that  that  Coon  song  we  used 
to  sing  about  "Lou,  Lou,  I  love  you"  came  out  of 
Life  for  the  Czar.  The  other  was  that  Michael,  our 
vanished  reaper  and  binder,  far  from  having  dis 
appeared  in  the  Golden  Horn  with  Aurora's  phantom 
coup£  or  from  having  otherwise  evaporated,  sat  solid 
and  sunburned  in  another  tin  chair  of  the  Boulevard, 
eyeing  me.  To  be  sure  he  was  moustached,  uni 
formed,  medalled,  booted,  disguised  as  a  kind  of 
bastard  Cossack  with  all  manner  of  strange  accout 
rements  and  insignia.  But  it  was  Michael.  What 
is  more  he  presently  grinned,  albeit  a  trifle  sheepish 
ly,  pulling  up  his  tin  chair  beside  mine. 

"I  was  afraid  you  were  going  to  be  melodramatic/' 
he  said.  "As  it  is,  let's  have  a  chat." 

We  had  a  chat.  Tin  chairs  in  parks  always  re 
mind  me  of  that  chat.  At  the  time  I  thought  it  the 
most  interesting  chat  I  ever  had.  That  was  before 
I  proposed  to  Alice. 

"I  suppose  they  think  I  took  the  money,  eh?" 
Michael  finally  asked. 

"Yes,"  I  answered.  "They  think  you  took  the 
money." 

"  H'm.  I've  made  it  up  to  them  without  their  know 
ing.  So  that's  all  right.  And — what  about  Aurora?" 

I  told  him  about  Aurora.  He  was  longer  with  his 
"H'm"  that  time.  Do  you  know?  I  believe  the  fel 
low  was  human  enough  to  be  jealous  of  an  astrologer 
whom  he  didn't  envy!  However,  he  ended  by  letting 
out  another: 


30  LIKE  MICHAEL 

"So  that's  all  right." 

"And  you?"  I  ventured. 

He  didn't  say  anything  at  first.  He  sat  there 
fingering  his  gewgaws  and  staring  at  the  sea. 

"How's  a  man  to  know  whether  he's  all  right  or 
all  wrong?"  he  finally  demanded. 

"Hell!"  objected  I.  "It  isn't  your  fault  if  you 
happen  to  be  sitting  in  Batum  instead  of  in  Zerbetta 
—or  at  the  bottom  of  the  Golden  Horn.  You  couldn't 
have  invented  such  an  end  for  yourself  if  you  had 
tried  till  you  were  black  in  the  face.  That  antiquity 
gang  is  responsible,  not  you.  But  I  bet — " 

But  I  concluded  not  to.  As  for  Michael,  he  con 
tinued  to  study  the  afternoon  blue  of  the  sea.  Down 
the  edge  of  it  a  steamer  trailed  a  long  dark  line  of 
smoke  toward  the  West. 

"  I  suppose  I  could  go  back  home  if  I  really  wanted 
to,"  he  said,  "now  that  my  antiquity  man  has  pulled 
off  his  republic.  Yet  after  all,  what  good  would  it 
do?  You  can  see  for  yourself —  The  worst  of  it, 
though,  is  that  I  don't  really  want  to.  You  get  in 
terested  in  people,  you  know,  in  spite  of  yourself — 
even  when  they  have  Jew  noses  and  jabber  Armenian. 
I'd  like  to  see  their  show  through.  Then  they've 
been  no  end  decent  to  me.  I've  a  vine  and  fig  tree 
of  my  own — up  Ararat  way!  I  have  a  house  to  live 
in,  and  a  horse  to  ride,  and  a  wife  to  beat.  I  do  it, 
too.  I've  learned  that  much, "  he  pronounced  dark 
ly,  in  a  tone  that  struck  me  at  first  as  irrelevant. 
On  consideration,  however,  I  decided  it  wasn't. 


LIKE  MICHAEL  31 

"Anyhow,"  he  went  on,  "I'm  alive;  and  I  can't  say 
I'm  sorry.  The  funny  thing  about  it  is  that  I  never 
knew  it  till  I  came  so  near  stepping  off.  I've  had 
some  pretty  narrow  squeaks  since  then,  too.  And 
my  chances  of  dropping  in  my  boots  are  still  a  lot 
brighter  than  yours.  All  the  same,  it's  better  than 
peddling  those  damned  hay-rakes.  But  once  in  a 
while,"  the  inconsequent  devil  blurted  out,  "I  come 
down  here  and  listen  to  the  band." 

Now  can  you  imagine  a  man  being  like  that?    But 
if  you  ever  breathe  a  word  to  a  living  soul — ! 


HENRIETTA  STACKPOLE  REDIVIVA 

THANKS  to  Henry  James — on  whom  be  peace 
— I  am  a  man  without  a  trade.  One  by  one  he 
used  to  appropriate  my  most  precious  models 
until  I  came  to  await  each  new  book  with  a  curiosity 
which  no  disinterested  reader  could  imagine.  A  sur 
prising  number  of  his  so-called  creations — how  little 
did  he  create  them  only  he  and  I  could  tell! — I  knew 
long  before  knowing  him.  Roderick  Hudson,  for 
instance,  I  met  at  a  villa  in  the  Euganean  Hills,  and 
regarded  as  my  peculiar  prey,  in  days  before  the 
precipice.  And,  indeed,  he  has  not  gone  over  it  yet; 
but  it  is  only  a  question  of  time.  The  Princess  Ca- 
samassima,  too,  is  an  old  friend  of  mine  who  oscillates 
between  Paris  and  Constantinople.  She  is  shortly 
to  be  married,  I  hear,  and  that  is  a  turn  unkinder 
than  any  Mr.  James  has  done  me.  Then  there  is 
Osmond.  Often  as  I  have  seen  him,  though,  he  would 
probably  tell  you  that  he  dared  say  but  didn't  really 
recollect.  They  will  never  admit  that  they  are 
fathomable,  those  people.  As  for  Madame  Merle, 
I  believe  I  have  met  her  once  only.  Christopher 
Newman,  however,  and  the  Baroness  Miinster,  and 
Gordon  Wright,  and  poor  little  Maisie —  But  I  might 
go  on  indefinitely,  picking  out  persons  of  my  ac- 


HENRIETTA  STACKPOLE  REDIVIVA     33 

v 

quaintance  whom  Mr.  James  in  some  unaccountable 
way  discovered  first. 

Still,  in  spite  of  this  purely  accidental  disadvantage 
under  which  I  suffer,  it  must  be  said  that  the  printed 
fortunes  of  these  friends  of  mine  afford  me,  in  many 
cases,  a  pleasure  superior  to  that  of  actual  inter 
course.  I  have  to  confess,  too,  that  Mr.  James  has 
not  seldom  lent  me  the  key  to  mysteries  of  character 
which  would  have  remained  inscrutable  but  for  his 
elucidation.  It  has  even  happened,  furthermore,  that 
an  introduction  from  him  has  been  so  complete  that 
when  later  I  came  to  meet  the  person  in  real  life  it 
was  like  being  at  a  play  which  one  has  seen  before. 
I  knew  in  advance  exactly  what  to  expect. 

A  cognate  case  was  my  encounter  with  Henrietta 
Stackpole,  the  spirited  journalist  in  "The  Portrait 
of  a  Lady."  As  I  did  not  recognise  her  at  first  sight, 
it  is  quite  possible  that  the  reader  may  fail  to  do  so. 
Indeed,  some  to  whom  I  tell  the  story  roundly  de 
clare  they  do  not  believe  a  word  of  it.  I  can  only  in 
sist  that  it  happened  years  and  years  ago,  at  a  far 
less  sophisticated  period  of  our  history;  that  the 
name  on  the  card  was  unmistakable;  and  that  Hen 
rietta  was  a  caprice,  if  you  will,  but  a  perfectly  cred 
ible  one,  of  a  rapid  and  uneven  civilisation. 

My  second  introduction  to  her  came  about  in  this 
wise.  I  was  staying  at  the  time  in  Venice — a  city 
in  which  it  has  been  my  good  fortune  to  spend  much 
of  my  life  and  in  which  I  would  count  it  perfect  hap 
piness  to  spend  the  whole.  A  prevalence  of  rainy 


34     HENRIETTA  STACKPOLE  REDIVIVA 

scirocco  had  for  two  or  three  days  diminished  the 
enchantments  of  the  summer  lagoon.  It  was  there 
fore  natural,  on  the  morning  in  question,  that  I 
should  have  gone  unconsciously  to  that  place  which  is 
always  aglow  when  the  world  is  grey,  which  is  always 
warm  when  the  wind  is  cold,  which  is  always 
cool  when  the  sun  is  hot — the  miraculous  church  of 
St.  Mark's.  There  I  established  myself  at  the  base 
of  my  favourite  pier  and  proceeded  to  the  familiar 
enjoyment  of  sensations  which  this  is  not  the  place 
to  describe. 

Presently  there  crossed  my  line  of  vision  a  lady. 
This  was  not  in  itself  a  phenomenon  so  extraordinary. 
St.  Mark's,  like  other  churches,  usually  contains 
more  women  than  men;  in  the  course  of  a  year  I 
doubt  not  that  more  Americans  enter  it  than  Italians; 
and  of  American  travellers,  young  women — to  use 
the  phrase  in  its  most  generous  sense — vastly  out 
number  persons  of  other  descriptions.  Indeed,  it  is 
a  tradition  implanted  in  the  European  mind  only 
more  ineradicably  by  the  doughboys  of  1918  that 
ours  is  a  land  of  Amazons,  whence  the  few  indis 
pensable  males  are  seldom  allowed  to  escape.  There 
crossed  my  line  of  vision,  then,  a  damsel  of  my  own 
nationality.  A  certain  peculiarity  attached  to  her 
from  the  fact  that  she  carried  no  Baedeker.  Nor 
did  she  appear  to  have  ties  with  any  person  or  group 
of  persons  provided  with  a  copy  of  that  useful  work. 
What  particularly  attracted  my  attention  to  her, 
however,  was  a  large  silver  ornament  which  she  bore 


HENRIETTA  STACKPOLE  REDIVIVA     35 

on  a  revers  of  her  tailor-made  costume.  It  represent 
ed — so  far  as  I  could  make  out — a  human  head  and 
bust,  supported  in  heraldic  and  highly  decorative 
manner  by  fluttering  streamers  and  extended  wings. 
In  those  distant  days  there  was  no  cavalry  of  the 
clouds,  to  suggest  a  winged  admirer  in  the  Air  Service. 
So,  knowing  that  my  countrywomen  are  insatiable 
collectors  of  the  curious  and  the  antique,  I  wondered 
if  this  young  lady  had  picked  up  in  the  Spadaria 
some  quaint  bit  of  chasing  and  had  adopted  this 
means  of  transporting  it  to  her  hotel. 

As  if  to  satisfy  my  curiosity,  the  young  person 
obligingly  proceeded  to  seat  herself  near  me  on  the 
bench  at  the  foot  of  the  pier.  I  was  thus  enabled  to 
devote,  at  closer  range,  a  covert  examination  to  her 
treasure.  The  human  representation  I  accordingly 
discovered  to  be  that  of  Col.  William  Jennings  Bryan, 
as  set  forth  by  a  legend  on  the  fluttering  streamers, 
which  contained  further  expressions  with  regard  to 
free  silver  and  crosses  of  gold.  I  could  not  easily  de 
cipher  them  without  appearing  to  transcend  the 
bounds  of  delicacy. 

The  completeness  of  my  disillusionment,  and  the 
fact  that  a  young  and  measurably  attractive  woman 
should  prefer  ornaments  of  free  silver  to  crosses  of 
gold — for  which  latter  I  have  an  especial  fancy — led 
me  to  consider  my  companion  with  more  attention 
than  it  might  perhaps  be  decorous  for  a  stranger  to 
betray.  Her  attire  was  that  of  a  well-to-do  person, 
and  she  might  have  passed  for  one  of  good  taste  but 


36     HENRIETTA  STACKPOLE  REDIVIVA 

for  the  ornament  to  which  I  have  referred.  That  she 
was  of  alert  mind  was  evident  from  the  incisive  way 
in  which  she  looked  about  and  then  used  her  pencil 
upon  a  small  pad,  as  one  making  a  sketch.  I  must 
confess  that  I  had  some  curiosity  to  see  how  St. 
Mark's  would  look  to  a  virgin  of  political  mind,  and 
I  was  so  rude  as  to  let  my  eye  rest  for  a  moment  upon 
her  paper.  To  my  surprise  I  discovered  that  she  was 
not  sketching  at  all — or  that,  if  she  did  so,  it  was 
with  words,  and  in  some  dialect  to  me  perfectly  un 
intelligible.  The  characters  with  which  she  rapidly 
covered  her  pad  resembled  those  of  the  Arabic  more 
nearly  than  anything  else  with  which  I  was  ac 
quainted,  unless  they  had  about  them  something  of 
Scandinavian  runes.  Altogether  I  was  completely 
mystified.  For  whatever  traits  may  distinguish  the 
American  girl  upon  her  travels,  linguistic  facility  is 
not  one  of  them. 

As  we  sat  thus  in  uncommunicative  companion 
ship,  there  approached  us  that  familar  genius  of  St. 
Mark's,  the  blue  and  ancient  sacristan  who  rattles 
the  collection  box.  Me  he  knew  of  old  as  a  wanton 
gentleman  much  given  to  passing  half  hours  in  the 
golden  church  at  the  side  of  young  and  otherwise 
unprotected  ladies.  At  least  I  am  sure  he  can  have 
attributed  to  me  no  motive  other  than  that  which 
was  likely  to  bring  so  many  whispering  couples  of 
his  own  nationality.  Accordingly  he  approached  us 
with  a  smile  of  recognition  and  held  out  toward  the 
person  at  my  side  one  of  those  cards  with  which  he 


HENRIETTA  STACKPOLE  REDIVIVA     37 

is  so  inexhaustibly  provided,  representing  the  Nico- 
peian  Madonna.  The  admirer  of  Colonel  Bryan 
looked  dubiously  upon  this  offering.  Finally,  how 
ever,  she  was  won  over  by  the  old  man's  irresistible 
smile  and  accepted  the  papistical  emblem.  No 
sooner  had  she  done  so  than  the  sacristan,  as  is  his 
wont,  produced  the  collection  box,  which  from  force 
of  habit  he  had  kept  behind  him.  At  this  the  young 
woman  tried  to  hand  back  the  card.  But  the  old 
man  was  occupied  in  passing  the  box  to  me,  as  in 
such  cases  was  also  his  wont.  And  from  force  of 
habit  I  dropped  in  a  coin.  At  which  the  cheerful 
ancient  bent  his  efforts  in  other  directions. 

The  girl  turned  instantly  to  me,  opening  at  the 
same  time  the  business-like  black  leather  chatelaine 
which  hung  at  her  side. 

"How  much  was  it?"  she  inquired. 

"My  dear  young  lady,"  I  said,  "it  was  nothing  at 
all.  I  beg  of  you  to  put  away  your  purse.  Those 
cards  are  distributed  free.  I  merely  put  something 
in  because  the  old  man  and  I  are  friends." 

She  looked  at  me  a  moment  with  some  intensity, 
and  then  snapped  her  bag.  It  occurred  to  me  that 
her  mind  would  sound  like  that — when  she  made  it 
up,  as  we  say. 

"How  do  you  and  the  old  man  happen  to  be 
friends?"  she  demanded  rather  abruptly.  "Do  you 
live  here?" 

"Yes"  I  answered,  expressing  the  will  for  the  deed. 

"You  speak  English  very  well"  she  commented, 


38     HENRIETTA  STACKPOLE  REDIVIVA 

regarding  me  much  as  if  I  had  been  a  Bearded  Lady, 
or  a  glove  worn  by  Gustavus  Adolphus. 

"Thank  you!"  I  exclaimed.  "That  is  a  great 
compliment,  for  I  was  born  in  Vermont." 

I  suspected  that  my  interlocutress  did  not  alto 
gether  appreciate  this  point.  She  continued  to  re 
gard  me  with  such  fixedness  that  I  had  an  immediate 
intuition  of  what  she  was  about  to  say.  She  would 
require  of  me  to  inform  her  why  I  lived  abroad  when 
I  was  privileged  to  dwell  in  a  country  so  far  superior 
to  every  other,  and  however  ingenious  might  be  my 
pretence  she  would  put  me  in  the  wrong.  My  in 
tuition,  however,  as  too  frequently  is  the  case,  was 
mistaken.  The  young  lady  opened  once  more  her 
chatelaine  bag,  drew  forth  the  receptacle  from  which 
she  had  endeavoured  to  reimburse  my  expenditure 
in  her  behalf,  and  produced  a  neatly  printed  card 
which  she  handed  to  me.  Upon  this  I  read  the 
legend: 

Miss  Henrietta  C.  Stackpole 

THE  OMAHA  REVIEWER 

I  stared  at  this  name  in  speechless  amazement. 
I  had  supposed  Henrietta  long  married  to  Bantling, 
and  by  this  time  the  mother  of  an  infinite  progeny. 
And  Omaha!  But,  as  I  have  intimated,  much  has 
happened  since  1881.  And  before  I  could  frame  some 
manner  of  remark,  my  companion  again  addressed 
me: 

"  I  wish  you  would  give  me  some  information." 


HENRIETTA  STACKPOLE  REDIVIVA     39 

"I  shall  be  only  too  delighted,  my  dear  Miss 
Stackpole!"  I  assured  her  effusively.  "I  have  heard 
so  much  about  you.  This  is  my  name  " ;  and  I  offered 
her  my  card  in  return. 

"  Where  have  you  heard  about  me?  "  she  demanded 
in  surprise. 

"Why,  from  Mr.  James,"  I  replied. 

"Mis-ter  James?"  she  repeated  in  deep  mystifica 
tion.  "I  don't  remember  any  Mr.  James.  Oh,  do 
you  mean  Mr.  Reuben  James,  of  Topeka?" 

"No,  Mr.  Henry  James,  of  London,"  I  told  her. 

"I  don't  know  any  Mr.  Henry  James,"  she  de 
clared  decisively.  "He  must  have  seen  my  letters 
in  the  Reviewer." 

"Oh,  of  course!"  I  uttered,  with  considerable  con 
fusion.  "I  beg  your  pardon.  I  thought You 

see What  information  can  I  give  you?" 

"Well,  would  you  mind  telling  me  if  this  is  really 
Venus?"  she  asked  confidentially,  sketching  a  circle 
in  the  ambient  air. 

I  regarded  my  companion  with  no  little  uncertain 
ty.  What  finesses  might  lurk  behind  so  intriguing  a 
question? 

"Ve -?"  But  even  as  I  began  to  repeat  the 

name,  it  flashed  into  my  thick  head  that  so  had  a 
gentleman  from  California  once  denominated  to  me 
some  egregious  Venice  of  his  native  State;  and  my 
eyes  opened  very  wide.  "Why,  yes,"  I  replied, 
hesitating.  "That  is,  if  'Romeo  and  Juliet'  is 
Shakespeare.  I  rather  like  the  water,  myself." 


40     HENRIETTA  STACKPOLE  REDIVIVA 

While  she  neither  agreed  with  nor  challenged  this 
remark,  I  observed  that  it  produced  a  visible  sat 
isfaction  in  her.  And  she  went  on: 

"I  want  to  find  out  all  about  it.  There's  simply 
no  end  of  things  I  want  to  ask— for  my  letters,  you 
know.  I  write  for  a  syndicate  as  well  as  for  the 
Reviewer,  and  you're  the  first  person  I've  met  that 
I  can  really  talk  to.  I  hardly  know  where  to  begin. 
What  is  this  big  building  next  door,  for  one  thing? 
It's  awfully  queer  looking." 

"It  is  rather  queer,"  I  admitted.  "The  Patriar 
chate,  I  suppose  you  mean?  In  the  Piazzetta,  dei 
Leomini?" 

11 1  don't  know  any  names,  but  I  mean  the  checker 
board  one,  with  piazzas  all  around  and  a  picket  fence 
along  the  top." 

"Oh!"  I  ejaculated,  staring  at  her  very  hard. 
"That  is  the  Doges'  Palace." 

"What  palace?  These  I-talian  names  are  too 
much  for  me." 

"Call  it  the  Ducal  Palace,  then,"  I  answered,  ex 
periencing  a  profound  sensation.  The  young  lady 
thereupon  applied  herself  anew  to  her  pad;  and  it 
dawned  upon  me  that  her  strange  alphabet  might  be 
that  of  stenography.  "I  should  think  that  you 
would  find  a  Baedeker  convenient,"  I  added,  dis 
covering  that  the  intensity  of  my  gaze  had  drawn 
Miss  Stackpole's  eye. 

"Oh,  I  guess  I'm  bright  enough  to  get  around  by 
myself,  thank  you!"  she  rejoined  with  some  irony. 


HENRIETTA  STACKPOLE  REDIVIVA     41 

"  I've  travelled  enough.  This  isn't  the  first  time  I've 
been  to  Europe,  either— though  it's  the  first  I've 
been  to  Italy." 

"Oh,  indeed!  How  I  envy  you!  Think  of  coming 
to  Italy  for  the  first  time!" 

There  was  something  of  voracity  in  the  eagerness 
with  which  I  turned  upon  her.  This  was  really  too 
good  to  be  true.  It  was  incomparable.  When  had 
anybody  ever  come  to  Italy  before  without  knowing 
exactly  what  was  expected  of  them?  To  my  astonish 
ment,  however,  and  no  small  dismay,  the  eyes  of 
Henrietta  suddenly  began  to  swim. 

"You  wouldn't  envy  me,"  she  said  with  a  catch  in 
her  voice,  "if  you  knew  how  disappointed  I  was,  and 
what  I've  been  through." 

She  turned  away  a  moment,  as  if  to  look  at  the 
great  swinging  lamp  in  the  form  of  a  branching  cross; 
but  I  knew  she  was  brushing  her  hand  across  her 
eyes.  An  unaccountable  contrition  swept  over  me. 
I  responded,  as  sympathetically  as  I  knew  how: 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Stackpole!  I'm  so 
sorry.  I  am  sure  you  must  have  been  unfortunate." 

"  I  have  been ! "  she  exclaimed,  turning  to  me  again. 

"I "  She  stopped  short  a  moment.  Then — 

"You  probably  think  I'm  queer,  telling  you  all  these 
things;  but  you're  the  first  American  I've  seen  for 
'most  a  week." 

"The  pleasure  is  mine,  I  assure  you!"  I  declared. 
"  It  is  even  longer  since  I  have  seen  one."  I  failed  to 
add  what  she  might  have  found  complimentary, 


42     HENRIETTA  STACKPOLE  REDIVIVA 

that  seeing  Americans  was  not  what  I  came  to  Venice 
for,  and  that  I  usually  took  pains  to  avoid  them. 

"Well,"  she  exclaimed,  "it  just  does  me  good  to 
talk  to  you." 

"Have  you  been  here  long?"  I  delicately  sug 
gested. 

"Well,  it  seems  as  if  it  had  been  forever,  but  I 
guess  it's  only  about  two  days."  Miss  Stackpole 
herself  was  evidently  more  mysterious  than  her  little 
pad.  In  spite  of  my  sympathy  for  an  unfortunate 
lady  I  felt  again  an  extreme  curiosity  to  hear  the 
story  of  an  original  one.  Before  I  had  quite  made 
up  my  mind,  however,  as  to  how  I  might  serve  God 
and  Mammon  with  equal  zeal,  Miss  Stackpole's 
overburdened  heart  solved  the  difficulty.  "I've 
been  in  London  all  summer,"  she  volunteered,  "re 
porting  the  coronation.  But  I  got  all  het  up,  and  so 
I  broke  off  and  went  to  Switzerland.  I  lost  big 
money  by  it,  too.  I  can  afford  it,  though,  and  I  got 
a  lot  better." 

"I  hope  you  are  feeling  quite  right  now,"  I  inter 
posed. 

"So  far  as  my  digestion  goes,  yes,  thank  you!" 
she  returned.  "Well,  I  was  just  about  ready  to  go 
back,  when  I  heard  some  people  in  the  hotel  one  night 
talking  about  Venice — if  that's  the  way  they  pro 
nounce  it  here.  They'd  left  the  day  before,  they 
said,  and  they  were  going  on,  saying  how  grand  it  all 
was.  And  the  more  I  listened  to  them  the  more  it 
seemed  as  if  I  must  come  down  here.  Somehow  I 


HENRIETTA  STACKPOLE  REDIVIVA     43 

had  no  idea  it  was  that  near.  I've  always  wanted  to 
see  the  place  ever  since  I  read  about  it  in  geography 
at  school.  There  was  a  picture  of  it,  and  underneath 
it  said:  'Venice,  a  city  of  northern  Italy,  situated 
upon  117  small  islands  in  the  Adriatic  Sea/  I 
thought  that  was  just  wonderful — a  hundred  and 
seventeen  small  islands!  And  I  made  up  my  mind 
then  that  whenever  I  got  the  chance  I'd  come  here. 
So  I  started  right  off  the  next  day.  I  knew  all  about 
the  I-talians,  though,  and  I  just  made  up  my  mind 
I'd  get  ahead  of  them.  I  wasn't  going  to  land  in  their 
country  at  night,  and  get  robbed  or  stabbed  or  some 
thing.  There  was  a  real  nice  German  in  the  car,  and 
I  found  out  from  him  which  was  the  last  station  in 
Switzerland  and  I  got  out  there." 

"Oh,  my  poor  lady!"  I  cried.  "You  don't  mean 
to  say  that  you  spent  the  night  at  Chiasso  instead  of 
going  on  to  Milan?" 

"  That's  exactly  what  I  did,  if  that's  the  way  you 
pronounce  it;  but  I  don't  believe  Italy  itself  could 
have  been  any  worse.  The  hotel  was  just  the  limit, 
and  they  charged  me  more  than  Claridge  does — in 
London,  you  know.  However,  I  managed  to  get  on 
to  Milan  the  next  day.  And  I  like  to  have  been 
there  yet." 

"What  was  the  matter?"  I  inquired. 

"Why,  when  we  had  to  change  cars  I  couldn't 
make  anybody  understand  a  thing,  and  they  were 
all  so  black  and  horrid  and  murderous-looking  that 
I  'most  wished  I'd  never  tried  to  come.  I  was  afraid 


44     HENRIETTA  STACKPOLE  REDIVIVA 

they  hadn't  put  me  in  the  right  car,  either;  and  I 
hadn't  much  idea  how  far  it  was,  and  at  every  sta 
tion  I'd  start  up  and  look  for  the  name  because  I 
couldn't  understand  a  word  the  conductor  said.  But 
as  long  as  I  didn't  see  those  hundred  and  seventeen 
small  islands  I  felt  pretty  sure  I  was  right  to  stay  in 
the  car.  Once  I  almost  got  out,  when  we  came  to 
some  water  with  mountains  all  around — as  blue  as 
blue!  But  there  didn't  seem  to  be  any  islands,  and 
we  went  on  and  on,  and  it  grew  dark,  and  by  and  by 
it  began  to  rain  and  I  didn't  know  what  I  should  do 
— everything  looked  so  watery  and  islandy  outside. 
Then  the  train  stopped  and  a  man  opened  the  door, 
and  when  I  asked  him  if  'twas  Venus  he  just  took 
my  grip  and  dumped  it  out.  I  was  that  mad  I  would 
have  put  it  right  back  in.  When  I  got  out,  though, 
I  saw  we  were  at  the  end  of  the  line — wherever  that 
might  be.  So,  as  it  was  pretty  late  to  start  off  any 
wheres  else,  I  thought  I  might  as  well  try  my  luck 
and  find  out  afterwards  whether  it  was  Ve — Venice  or 
not.  But  I  don't  believe  I  ever  would,  for  sure,  if  I 
hadn't  met  you." 

"Beata,  Vergine!"  I  murmured.  "Can  these 
things  be?"  Then  aloud:  "Why,  you  seem  to  have 
got  on  very  well,  Miss  Stackpole,  for  one  who  didn't 
know  the  language." 

"Well,  I  always  did  manage  to  find  my  way  around 
pretty  well,"  she  admitted.  "But  I  never  had  a 
time  like  this  before.  The  getting  here  was  bad 
enough,  but  after  I  got  here  it  was  worse.  I  followed 


HENRIETTA  STACKPOLE  REDIVIVA     45 

the  people  out  of  the  station  and  I  looked  all  around 
for  a  hotel  'bus.  That's  what  I  always  do — get  into 
the  slickest  one  I  see,  and  then  I  land  at  a  good  hotel. 
But  I  couldn't  find  a  single  one.  There  were  just 
those  queer  boats.  A  good  many  people  seemed  to 
be  getting  into  them,  too;  but  I  didn't  like  to,  every 
thing  was  so  dark  and  the  men  looked  so  horrid.  I 
didn't  know  where  to  tell  them  to  go,  either.  Then 
I  saw  some  more  people  making  for  a  little  steamer, 
and  I  almost  thought  I'd  try  that.  But  I  hadn't 
any  idea  where  it  might  take  me,  and  I  thought  it 
was  safer  to  stick  to  dry  land.  A  whole  lot  of  the 
dreadfullest  men  kept  saying  things  to  me,  though, 
and  tried  to  grab  my  grip,  and  I  just  about  wished  I 
was  dead.  But  I  set  my  teeth  and  held  on  hard  and 
said  over  some  things  in  good  United  States,  and  then 
I  began  hunting  for  a  decent-looking  hotel  near  by. 
It  seemed  as  if  I  was  sure  to  strike  some  big  street  if 
I  just  walked  on  perfectly  straight.  That's  what  I 
always  do  when  I  get  lost.  But  I  couldn't  go  straight, 
to  begin  with.  I  just  kept  going  round  and  round  in 
the  worst  little  alleys  that  landed  me  up  against  a 
stone  wall  or  at  the  edge  of  the  water  or  in  some 
creepy  place  where  it  was  as  much  as  my  life  was 
worth  to  take  another  step.  I  got  so  tired  and 
scared  I  could  have  laid  right  down  in  the  street 
and  cried. 

"I'd  made  up  my  mind  that  I'd  find  a  hotel, 
though,  and  I  did.  I  finally  went  up  to  a  man  that 
looked  something  like  a  policeman,  and  I  showed  him 


46     HENRIETTA  STACKPOLE  REDIVIVA 

my  bag,  and  said  'Hotel'  real  loud,  several  times. 
He  understood  anyway,  for  he  called  a  man  with  a 
brass  check  on  his  arm,  and  said  something,  and 
waved  me  along  quite  polite.  I  was  pretty  scared, 
because  I  didn't  know  but  what  the  man  would  take 
me  off  into  one  of  those  creepy  places  and  cut  my 
throat.  Nobody  would  ever  find  out.  I  was  too 
done  up  to  mind,  though.  I  just  followed  along,  and 
by  and  by  we  came  to  a  cute  little  street  that  wasn't 
much  bigger  than  the  others;  but  it  was  real  bright, 
with  stores,  and  lots  of  people  walking,  and  so  we 
came  at  last  to  a  hotel.  It  wasn't  a  bit  like  the  kind 
of  hotels  I  go  to.  I  knew  this  was  Italy,  though,  and 
you  couldn't  expect  much,  and  I  was  that  tired  I 
would  have  slept  on  an  ash  heap." 

"I  wonder  what  hotel  it  was,"  I  said. 

"  It's  just  near  here,"  replied  my  companion.  "  I've 
got  the  name  on  a  card,  so  I  can  show  it  to  people  if 
I  get  lost." 

She  resorted  once  more  to  her  chatelaine  bag  and 
produced  a  card  on  which  I  read  the  reclame  of  a  very 
grubby  little  inn  occasionally  patronised  by  travellers 
anxious  to  practice  an  extreme  economy.  The  sole 
recommendation  of  the  place  is  its  antiquity.  There 
is  not  a  window  in  it,  I  believe,  or,  if  such  conveni 
ences  exist,  their  prospect  is  of  the  narrowest  and 
dingiest  calli. 

"  They  told  me  it  was  the  oldest  and  best  in  town," 
said  Miss  Stackpole.  "One  of  them  knows  a  little 
English." 


HENRIETTA  STACKPOLE  REDIVIVA     47 

"Well,  it  is  conveniently  located,"  I  assured  her. 
"I  hope  they  have  treated  you  right." 

"No!"  Her  voice  died,  and  this  time  her  eyes 
flooded  so  quickly  that  I  saw  a  splash  before  she 
could  turn.  "You  must  think  me  a  goose  for  going 
on  like  this,"  she  said,  raising  her  handkerchief. 
"But  it  does  seem  good  to  find  someone  who  isn't 
trying  to  do  me  out  of  my  bottom  dollar."  And 
presently:  "How  can  you  live  here,  among  such 
people?" 

The  Venetians  are  with  me  a  very  tender  point. 
I  have  so  long  been  a  victim  both  of  their  wiles  and 
of  their  charm!  But  in  the  end  it  is  the  charm  that 
I  remember. 

"My  poor  Miss  Stackpole,"  I  replied,  "you  have 
been  unfortunate.  If  some  of  them  are  pretty  bad, 
so  are  some  people  everywhere.  And  they  improve 
on  acquaintance.  Still,  of  course,  it  is  the  place  that 
catches  one.  Don't  you  delight  in  it,  now  that 
you Ve  seen  it?  " 

Henrietta  cast  her  eyes  doubtfully  about. 

"This  church  is  pretty  fine,  though  they  do  let  it 
run  down  the  worst  way.  Just  look  at  the  floor! 
And  the  square  out  there — it's  queer,  but  it's  nice; 
especially  looking  off  toward  the  water.  But  it  isn't 
a  bit  what  I  thought.  Those  hundred  and  seventeen 
small  islands  now — I  sort  of  saw  them  lying  around 
in  the  sea,  with  palms  and  temples  and  things. 
Don't  you  know?  I  never  expected  these  horrid 
slirny  little  canals,  and  backyard  alleys  instead  of 


48     HENRIETTA  STACKPOLE  REDIVIVA 

streets,  and  such  awful  shiftless  tumble-down 
houses." 

I  gazed  at  Henrietta  aghast.    Then  I  protested: 

"But  don't  you  think  many  of  the  little  alleys  de 
lightful?  And  the  squares,  and  the  palaces,  and  the 
carved  windows  and  balconies,  and  the  bridges,  and 
the  shine  of  green  below  them,  and  the  pictures,  and 
everything?  " 

Henrietta  shook  her  head  sadly. 

"  I  don't  know.  I  haven't  been  around  any,  except 
just  about  here.  I'm  afraid.  I  don't  know  why. 
I've  never  felt  that  way  before.  But  the  little  alleys 
are  so  treacherous-like,  and  the  people  look  so  horrid, 
and  it  has  rained  all  the  time,  and — oh  dear,  I  just 
wish  I'd  never  come!" 

For  a  moment  I  thought  that  the  dikes  were  down 
and  we  were  lost.  But  even  as  my  knees  began  to 
knock,  Henrietta  pulled  herself  together,  dried  her 
eyes  for  the  last  time,  and  said: 

"Now  I  feel  a  lot  better — now  that  I've  told  you 
all  about  it.  Supposing  you  go  ahead  and  tell  me  all 
about  things.  I'm  going  to  make  this  trip  pay  for 
itself,  if  it  doesn't  pay  me." 

Could  Henrietta  have  read  my  heart  at  that  mo 
ment  she  might  have  made  a  Bantling  out  of  me 
before  I  knew  what  she  was  up  to.  The  idea  of  this 
poor  girl  so  realising  the  dream  of  her  childhood — of 
her  stumbling  blind  into  the  loveliest  city  in  the 
world,  and  falling  among  thieves,  and  miraculously 
escaping  everything  that  there  was  of  enchantment 


HENRIETTA  STACKPOLE  REDIVIVA     49 

— moved  me  idiotically.  And  not  only  did  the  pathos 
of  Henrietta  move  me.  I  was  jealous  for  the  honour 
of  my  chosen  city,  whose  peerless  charms  I  have 
been  ready  ever  to  maintain  against  any  champion 
and  all. 

"My  dear  Miss  Stackpole,"  I  cried,  "you  havfe 
been  unlucky!  But  you  must  let  me  help  you  to  put 
things  right.  I  shall  be  your  guide,  if  you  don't  mind. 
And  first  of  all  you  must  change  your  hotel.  I  know 
of  one  which  is  just  the  place.  Nobody  will  rob  you 
there,  and  everybody  speaks  English,  and  you  will 
meet  any  number  of  Americans,  and  your  windows 
will  open  into  the  Grand  Canal." 

"What  is  that?"  inquired  Henrietta,  grasping  her 
pencil. 

"Madre  di  Dior  I  gasped.  "  Why,  that  is  Venice ! " 
This  was  a  banality  justified  by  my  companion's 
predicament.  "Haven't  you  been  in  a  gondola  yet? 
A  gondola?,"  I  emended  hastily,  detecting  a  cloud  in 
Henrietta's  eye.  "One  of  those  boats?" 

"No,"  she  answered.  "They  looked  so  queer; 
and  then  I  didn't  know  as  I'd  ever  get  back." 

"My  dear  lady!"  I  groaned.  "This  is  too  much! 
Come  out  with  me  this  instant  to  row  in  a  gondola. 
You  haven't  seen  the  fingernail  of  Venice  yet!" 

Henrietta  looked  at  me. 

"You're  very  kind,"  she  said  slowly.  "I  don't 
know  but  what  I  will,  later  on.  Just  now,  though, 
I  want  you  to  tell  me  about  things.  I  do  want  to  get 
those  letters  done.  They  are,  pretty  near."  I  sup- 


50     HENRIETTA  STACKPOLE  REDIVIVA 

pose  my  face  must  have  betrayed  something,  for  she 
went  on:  "Perhaps  you  think  it's  funny  for  me  to 
write  letters  before  I've  seen  much.  But  I'm  made 
that  way,  you  know.  I  really  don't  need  to  see  a 
place  to  tell  about  it.  When  I  go  into  it,  it  sort  of 
comes  over  me  what  sort  of  a  place  it  is,  and  I  just 
sit  down  and  write  it  up  as  if  I'd  been  all  over.  You 
might  not  think  so  to  hear  me  talk.  I'm  not  much  on 
talking,  same  as  business  men  who  keep  stenog 
raphers  aren't  much  on  writing.  But  I  can  write 
two  articles  about  the  same  thing,  and  you'd  never 
guess  they  were  by  the  same  person  till  you  came  to 
the  name  at  the  end." 

I  gazed  at  Henrietta  with  deepening  interest. 

"I  hope  you  will  send  me  your  Venetian  letters 
when  they  come  out,"  I  ventured. 

"I  will,"  declared  she  courteously. 

She  thereupon  proceeded  to  ply  me  with  questions 
the  most  diverse,  the  which  for  brevity's  sake  I  for 
bear  to  transcribe.  Each  was  more  amazing  than 
the  last,  and  when  finally  I  found  myself  escorting 
her  to  her  hotel,  I  wondered  whether,  after  all,  the 
role  of  Bantling  would  suit  me.  Nevertheless,  I  had 
an  extreme  curiosity  to  hear  her  comments  upon 
those  aqueous  aspects  of  Venice  which  had  as  yet 
remained  concealed  from  her.  I  also  took  occasion 
to  stop  at  Zanetti's  and  purchase  a  copy  of  Baede 
ker's  "Northern  Italy,"  which  I  begged  of  Henrietta 
to  accept  as  a  loan.  I  knew  she  would  accept  it  on 
no  other  terms,  and  I  assured  her  that  she  would  find 


HENRIETTA  STACKPOLE  REDIVIVA     51 

it  invaluable  in  putting  her  notes  into  permanent 
form.  She,  thanking  me  warmly  for  my  manifold 
kindnesses,  declared  that  she  would  be  delighted  to 
accompany  me  in  a  gondola  at  three  o'clock,  when 
her  letters  would  surely  be  ready  for  the  post. 

When  I  called  for  her  at  the  time  appointed,  the 
porter  informed  me  that  the  signorina  had  departed 
on  the  half-past-two  train.  In  the  face  of  my  in 
credulity  he  then  produced  the  new  Baedeker  and 
the  following  note: 

DEAR  FRIEND! 

I  must  beg  your  pardon  for  giving  you  the  mitten,  especially 
after  you  had  been  so  polite.  But  I  finished  my  letters  much 
sooner  than  I  expected,  thanks  to  your  book,  and  after  looking 
same  over  there  really  did  not  seem  to  be  much  use  in  staying  on. 
So,  as  I  have  already  found  Venice  disappointing,  and  as  I  heard 
there  was  a  train  to  Paris  this  afternoon,  I  decided  to  avail  my 
self  of  the  opportunity 

Thanking  you  again, 

Sincerely, 

HENRIETTA  C.  STACKPOLE. 


THE  PAGAN 


I  NEVER  knew  him,  myself.  That  is,  in  the  ordi 
nary  way  of  acquaintance.  It  was  not  that  I 
avoided  him.  It  was,  rather,  that  I  was  young, 
and  shyer  than  I  might  have  admitted,  and  too  self- 
conscious  on  the  point  of  quid  pro  quo.  Time  has 
happily  made  me  less  squeamish  about  standing  to 
people  in  that  relation  which  is  not  rare  in  this  com 
plicated  world,  of  finding  them  more  interesting  than 
they  do  me.  Even  then,  though,  making  people  out 
was  for  me  the  chief  business  of  life.  Whereas  he 
seemed  to  live  in  a  world  by  himself.  At  any  rate 
he  was  far  more  fiercely  individual  than  I,  who  am 
Jesuit  enough  to  get  on  with  anybody.  Another 
point,  however,  was  that  I  went  to  Marshbury  those 
three  times  only,  for  short  periods  and  at  long  in 
tervals.  The  wonder  was  that  he  had  made  for  me 
so  complete  a  picture  as  he  did.  But  I  think  I  never 
saw  anyone  else  so  well  through  the  eyes  of  others. 
That  is  probably  why  I  have  never  been  back. 
There  was  something  final  about  that  slab  of  grey 
granite. 

Mary  Bennett  was  my  principal  source  of  infor 
mation.    Everyone  in  the  village  had  his  quota  to 

52 


THE  PAGAN  53 

contribute,  for  that  matter.  But  as  Mary  was  Mar 
vin's  "help,"  and  as  I  boarded  with  Mary's  mother, 
I  enjoyed  exceptional  opportunities.  Yet  now  that 
I  say  it,  I  realise  how  indirectly  it  is  true — how  little 
Mary  ever  told  me  in  so  many  words.  She  was  a 
solid  young  person  of  seventeen  when  I  first  knew 
her,  really  not  bad  to  look  at,  and  much  better  than 
gold,  but  of  a — what  shall  I  call  it?  Indeed,  I  my 
self  was  taken  in  at  first.  I  used  to  wonder  how  much 
help  the  girl  could  be.  I  was  slower  then  to  see  how 
factitious  a  part  speech  plays  in  the  economy  of  life. 
However,  when  I  heard  of  the  strange  being  to  whom 
Mary  ministered,  I  prepared  to  be  bored.  I  expected 
the  conventional  ogre  of  the  country  village. 

How  he  got  that  way — to  dip  into  the  dictionary  of 
the  place — nobody  knew.  He  was  born  and  brought 
up  in  the  village,  like  his  fathers  before  him  for 
two  hundred  years.  Moreover  most  of  them  had 
been  divines,  as  the  phrase  pleasantly  goes,  and  had 
passed  down  the  thunders  of  Sinai  from  one  quaking 
generation  to  the  next.  He  certainly  had  enjoyed 
every  advantage.  But  as  for  Marvin,  he  would  none 
of  them.  It  was  an  insoluble  mystery.  Mary  was 
the  first  to  suggest  that  a  circumstance  of  his  early 
youth  might  be  connected  with  it — and  a  step 
mother.  I  rather  balked  at  that.  I  have  my  own 
ideas  concerning  stepmothers.  But  when  I  heard 
about  this  one — !  Marvin  had  come  home  from 
school  one  afternoon  when  he  was  fourteen  or  so,  it 
seemed,  and  to  his  astonishment  had  found  the  house 


54  THE  PAGAN 

empty.  The  only  thing  in  it  was  his  little  trunk, 
neatly  packed  and  corded,  standing  near  the  door. 
There  was  also  a  note,  on  the  trunk.  Reminding 
him  that  he  was  now  a  man  and  had  a  man's  part  to 
play  in  the  world,  this  missive  assured  him  that  whom 
the  Lord  loved  he  chastened,  urged  him  to  gird  up  his 
loins  accordingly,  and  concluded  by  announcing  that, 
for  reasons  too  sad  and  too  numerous  to  mention,  the 
time  had  come  for  stepmother  and  stepson  to  part. 
That,  opined  Mary,  was  in  itself  sufficient  to  harden 
a  lad's  heart — particularly  in  view  of  certain  adven 
tures  which  were  known  to  have  succeeded  the  aban 
donment.  Mrs.  Bennett,  however,  did  not  coun 
tenance  her  daughter's  weakness.  "Sary  Marvin," 
contended  that  matron,  "certainly  don'  her  share — 
pore  onfort'nit  critter — toward  bringin'  up  Mat 
thew's  boy."  And  the  way  he  had  got  on  in  the 
world  ought  not  only  to  have  vindicated  the  justice 
of  his  stepmother's  confidence  in  him,  but  to  have 
convinced  him  beyond  all  shadow  of  doubt  that  the 
Lord  did  provide. 

Be  that  as  it  might,  Matthew's  boy  was  certainly 
provided  for.  It  was  but  another  discredit,  however, 
in  the  eyes  of  his  contemporaries.  To  live  without 
toil  was  as  open  an  invitation  to  Satan  as  it  was  an 
unseemly  example  to  the  community.  And,  beyond 
a  mere  exhibition  of  sinful  pride,  it  was  positively  a 
manner  of  bearing  false  witness.  For  there  were 
many  and  many  that  had  more  than  he,  and  were 
not  above  earning  their  daily  bread.  To  be  sure, 


THE  PAGAN  55 

there  was  no  infallible  means  of  knowing  just  how 
much  Matthew's  boy  had.  He  who  was  the  opposite 
of  his  neighbours  in  so  many  respects  perversely 
robbed  the  local  bank  of  a  considerable  business,  and 
kept  his  money  in  Boston — where  it  made  no  dif 
ference  to  anybody.  And  his  cheques  were  so  irreg 
ular,  and  to  such  varying  amounts,  that  the  village 
financiers  had  never  made  up  their  minds  whether 
Henry  Marvin  had  ten  thousand  dollars  or  ten  mil 
lion. 

But  there  were  ways,  I  learned,  by  which  you 
could  tell.  For  instance,  Henry,  he  didn't  take  the 
newspapers  and  magazines.  And  everybody  that 
was  half-way  respectable  subscribed  to  the  Marsh- 
bury  Messenger.  Henry  didn't  seem  to  care  much 
about  reading,  except  a  few  musty  old  things  of  his 
own  that  were  better  left  unread,  most  likely.  Nor 
did  he  avail  himself  of  the  other  means  of  cul 
ture  which  were  open  to  the  village.  He  didn't  even 
patronise  the  lecture  course.  Such  attractions  as 
they  had,  too — Dr.  Waterman,  the  great  Baptist 
minister  from  York  State,  who  lectured  on  "  Oceans 
of  Pearls,"  so  beautifully  that  you'd  never  know  he 
was  a  Baptist;  and  the  Orpheus  Male  Quartette; 
and  the  Ladies'  Band,  from  Germany;  and  all  sorts 
of  things!  Altogether  Henry  didn't  spend  much  that 
anybody  could  see,  and  he  probably  had  less  then 
he'd  like  to  make  out,  with  that  proud  way  of  his  of 
doing  nothing.  And  nobody  knew,  hinted  my  host 
ess  darkly,  how  he  came  by  what  he  had,  either. 


56  THE  PAGAN 

I  am  a  scandalous  gossip  myself,  and  always  en 
courage  other  people  in  it.  If  one  may  put  it  without 
circumlocution,  there  are  few  more  precious  sources 
of  copy.  I  must  say,  however,  that  the  Bennetts  did 
not  at  first  profoundly  interest  me  with  their  revela 
tions.  I  did  not  even  experience  any  unusual  sensa 
tion  when  I  was  told  of  Marvin's  prime  enormity, 
that  he  did  not  go  to  church.  It  was  perhaps  that 
in  a  slightly  wider  orbit  I  had  happened  to  hear  of 
such  cases  before.  I  had  discovered  that  it  by  no 
means  argues  an  original  spirit  to  discontinue  that 
for  which  one  has  no  inclination.  And  the  mere 
doing  or  not  doing  what  everybody  else  does  will 
rarely  suffice  to  portray  a  man.  The  traits  of  life  lie 
deeper  than  that.  The  only  thing  about  it  that 
struck  me  was  that  Mrs.  Bennett  called  Marvin,  in 
consequence  of  his  delinquencies,  "a  perfect  pagan." 
And  I  put  it  down  in  my  notebook  as  another  in 
stance  of  the  common  use  in  New  England  of  the 
most  unexpected  words. 

But  I  did  prick  up  my  ears  at  last.  It  was  one  day 
when  I  expressed  wonder — a  purely  conversational 
wonder,  let  me  confess  in  passing — that  Marvin 
should  continue  to  live  in  a  community  with  which  he 
no  longer  had  any  tie  of  blood  or  sympathy.  Mrs. 
Bennett  thereupon  informed  me  that  Mary  had  more 
than  once  asked  him  that  very  question — so  far  as  I 
could  make  out,  she  enjoyed  strangely  unconscious 
terms  of  familiarity  with  him — and  that  he  always 
told  her  it  was  because  of  the  brook.  He  lived,  it 


THE  PAGAN  57 

seemed,  on  the  farm  of  his  fathers,  down  near  the 
Poorhouse;  and  a  brook  ran  through  the  place,  in 
conveniently  cutting  off  a  piece  of  the  orchard  just 
behind  the  house.  The  noise  of  it  would  drive  you 
silly,  said  Mrs.  Bennett— especially  in  the  spring. 
It  never  could  make  too  much  noise  for  Marvin, 
though.  He  always  made  out  that  there  was  some 
girl  in  it,  singing  to  him. 

That  brook,  and  that  singing  girl,  caught  me! 
The  rest  of  it  might  have  belonged  to  any  retiring 
old  gentleman  who  was  afraid  of  or  bored  by  his 
neighbours — not  that  Marvin  was  so  old,  though,  I 
came  to  find  out.  But  this  was  of  a  distinguishing 
quality.  And  it  started  me  off  on  trails  of  curiosity 
which  rather  indecently  made  up  for  my  previous 
indifference.  I  would  have  given  a  good  deal  to 
meet  the  man.  There  was  no  one,  however,  through 
whom  the  thing  could  be  brought  about  in  the  ordi 
nary  way  of  the  world,  and  to  approach  him  directly 
was  more  than  I  dared.  It  was  not  merely  that  he 
was  older  than  I.  He  suddenly  gave  me  an  impres 
sion  of  being  more  genuine;  and  I  was  ashamed  to 
go  to  him  with  no  better  excuse  than  a  summer 
boarder's  inquisitiveness.  So  I  had  to  content  my 
self  with  getting  at  him  through  other  people's  ver 
sions. 

It  grew  into  quite  a  little  game  just  to  make  out 
the  deviation  of  each  particular  compass,  and  then 
to  chart  the  probable  course.  In  the  general  opinion, 
I  quickly  found,  Marvin  was  mad.  It  was  all  that 


58  THE  PAGAN 

saved  him  from  open  persecution.  Could  a  person 
be  regarded  as  responsible  who  insisted  that  he  heard 
voices  in  running  water,  and  who  told  the  minister 
to  his  face  that  there  was  more  religion  in  an  apple 
orchard  than  in  a  church?  And  there  were  things 
queerer  still,  intimated  Mrs.  Bennett.  Mary  could 
tell  about  them. 

What  Mary  could  tell,  what  Mary  did  tell,  most 
of  all  what  Mary  did  not  tell,  would  make  a  story  by 
itself !  It  was  such  a  case  of  the  unconscious  diversity 
between  character  and  opinions.  I  gathered  that 
among  the  reasons  why  the  girl  was  allowed  to  serve 
one  so  manifestly  in  league  with  evil  was  the  hope 
that  her  influence  might  be  edifying.  Certainly  it 
was  for  me,  during  the  daily  catechisms  which  she 
underwent  at  the  hands  of  her  family.  These,  I  was 
informed  in  private,  were  intended  to  lay  bare  any 
incipient  work  of  contamination.  Marvin's  money 
was  a  welcome  addition  to  the  family  exchequer, 
but  of  course  it  could  not  be  accepted  if  the  girl  were 
coming  to  any  harm.  There  was  special  danger, 
said  Mrs.  Bennett,  that  Mary  might  contract  habits 
of  intemperance.  Marvin  himself  drank,  and  there 
was  no  telling  but  what  he  would  attempt  as  well  the 
corruption  of  his  handmaid.  He  was  as  odd  about 
his  drinking  as  he  was  about  everything  else,  it 
seemed.  A  particular  upon  which  my  informant 
dwelt  was  that  Marvin,  instead  of  patronising  the 
drug-store  like  those  who  had  legitimate  uses  for 
strong  waters,  obtained  his  supply  from  Boston,  as 


THE  PAGAN  59 

he  did  his  money.  But  there  was  something  odder 
still.  The  man  had  actually  set  up  a  regular  bar  in 
his  house,  in  a  small  entry  between  the  sitting-room 
and  dining-room.  He  kept  it  stocked  with  liquids 
of  strange  colours,  and  he  had  counters  which  he 
could  let  down  across  the  doorways. 

"An'  he'll  be  in  the  settin'-room,"  went  on  Mrs. 
Bennett,  "an'  he'll  suddenly  get  up  an'  say,  'Good- 
evenin',  Jack;  can  you  fix  me  up  a  nice  dry  Martini? ' 
— or  somethin'  or  other  like  that.  Mary's  heard  him 
lots  o'  times.  He  don't  mind  her  bein'  'round.  An' 
then  he'll  walk  around  outside,  through  the  hall, 
into  the  dinin'-room,  an'  so  to  the  other  door  of  the 
entry.  An'  he'll  say,  same  as  if  he  was  answerin' 
himself,  'Sure,  Cap!  I  guess  we  can  to-night.'  An' 
then  he'll  pour  out  his  liquor,  an'  put  it  down  on  the 
counter,  an'  walk  around  outside  to  the  settin'-room 
again.  An'  then  he'll  take  up  the  stuff  he  left  on  the 
counter,  and  taste  it,  an'  say,  'That's  a  good  one 
you  made  me  to-night,  Jack,'  an'  he'll  drink  it  up 
just  as  if  he  was  in  company.  He  never  seems  to  get 
real  drunk,  though,  so  far  as  anybody  can  make  out. 
An'  he  never  tries  to  make  Mary  take  any.  He  just 
tells  her  he'd  agree  to  do  all  the  drinkin'  if  she'd  only 
do  the  mixin'  for  him,  an'  that  she'd  save  him  a  power 
o'  steps  if  she'd  only  help  him  play  his  game. 

"She's  don'  her  best  to  stop  it,  but  it  ain't  no  use. 
She  just  stood  up  to  him  one  day  an'  quoted  Scrip- 
tur'.  Wine  is  a  mocker,  she  said;  strong  drink  is 
ragin',  said  she,  an'  whosoever  is  deceived  thereby  is 


60  THE  PAGAN 

not  wise.  An'  there's  a  whole  lot  more  in  Proverbs 
about  they  that  tarry  long  at  the  wine,  an'  look  upon 
it  when  it  is  red,  an'  what  not.  But  Henry,  he  took 
her  right  up.  'Yes/  he  pops  out,  'an'  what  else  does 
it  say?  Give  strong  drink  unto  him  that  is  ready  to 
perish,  and  wine  unto  those  that  be  of  heavy  hearts. 
Let  him  drink,  and  forget  his  poverty,  and  remember 
his  misery  no  more!'  Did  you  ever  hear  the  likes  of 
that?" 
I  had  to  admit,  on  the  whole,  that  I  never  did. 

II 

It  is  strange  how  small  a  residue  will  be  left  by 
how  large  a  volume  of  life.  Experiences  that  run 
through  weeks  and  months  can  be  summed  up  at 
last  in  an  epigram.  Not  that  I  am  one,  let  me  say  in 
passing,  who  is  given  to  that  form  of  expression. 
The  thing  done  has  for  me  no  such  interest  as  the 
thing  doing — to  dip  again  into  that  dictionary.  Yet 
the  rest  of  my  summer  in  Marshbury  added  very 
little  to  the  picture  which  I  have  begun  to  sketch. 
I  had  had  my  impression.  I  merely  spent  my  time 
turning  it  over,  taking  it  in.  And  the  most  curious 
thing  was  that,  savouring  the  impression  as  much  as 
I  did,  I  could  go  away  and  think  no  more  about  it. 
I  went  away,  and  I  stayed  away  three  years.  The 
attractions  of  Italy  for  the  time  outweighed  all 
others.  But  after  my  "beaker  full  of  the  warm 
South,"  I  had  a  whim  to  go  back  to  Marshbury.  To 
speak  in  homely  terms,  I  suppose  it  was  on  the  same 


THE  PAGAN  61 

principle  that  one  likes  a  cold  shower  after  a  hot 
scrub.  At  any  rate,  I  am  never  so  fond  of  the  North 
as  after  a  prolonged  sojourn  in  the  South,  or  of 
America  as  after  Europe.  And  the  picture  of  my 
pagan  came  to  me  again  more  strikingly  than  ever — 
that  picture  which  would  have  been  so  impossible  in 
the  country  from  which  I  returned,  which  was  so  of 
the  soil  of  that  to  which  I  went  back.  To  Marshbury, 
therefore,  I  proceeded;  and,  of  course,  for  old  times' 
sake,  I  put  up  at  Mrs.  Bennett's.  Indeed  I  could 
not  put  up  anywhere  else.  They  were  all  so  a  part 
of  the  impression. 

As  for  that,  however — !  I  was  not  in  the  least 
prepared  for  the  changes  it  had  undergone.  I  must 
even  confess  that  I  was  at  first  a  little  disappointed. 
I  somehow  felt  that  Marshbury  had  not  honourably 
kept  its  tryst  with  me.  So  does  one  insist  on  oppos 
ing  one's  childish  singleness  of  idea  to  the  richness 
of  life!  The  background,  to  be  sure,  was  exactly  as 
I  remembered  it.  The  hills  looked  just  as  they  had 
from  the  time  of  the  Flood.  So,  I  felt  certain,  did 
the  houses  and  the  people.  By  whom  I  mean  the 
lay  figures,  the  supernumeraries.  And  Mrs.  Ben 
nett  herself,  who  was  no  supernumerary,  was  good 
enough  to  spare  a  shock  to  my  sensibilities.  But 
that  only  made  Mary  seem  the  more  unnatural.  She 
had  suffered  one  of  those  metamorphoses  to  which 
the  young  are  so  peculiarly  susceptible — and  which, 
apparently,  no  amount  of  experience  can  ever  teach 
their  absent  elders  to  foresee.  The  curious  thing 


62  THE  PAGAN 

about  it  was  that  I  could  trace,  after  the  event,  how 
impossible  it  would  have  been  for  her  to  turn  out 
otherwise.  Even  through  her  solidest  days  she  had 
always  been  prettier  than  she  could  help.  It  was 
only  natural  that  she  should  have  grown  up  into  a 
handsome  dignity  that  barely  fell  short  of  beauty 
and  stateliness.  And  while  she  was  little  freer  of 
words  than  she  ever  had  been,  she  no  longer  gave 
one  the  feeling  that  she  stood  in  want  of  them.  Al 
together  she  distinctly  left  me  staring. 

And  she  by  no  means  put  an  end  to  it  when,  in 
response  to  my  inquiry  as  to  whether  she  still  went 
to  Mr.  Marvin's,  she  replied: 

"Yes.  He's  got  a  girl  now.  He  says  she's  the  one 
who  used  to  sing  to  him  in  the  brook." 

This  statement  surprised  but  did  not  enlighten 
me.  I  did  not  know  whether  to  understand  that  the 
Pagan  employed  a  maid  or  was  somehow  in  posses 
sion  of  a  daughter.  It  appeared,  however,  that  the 
latter  was  the  case.  And  it  furthermore  appeared — 
at  least  to  my  subliminal  consciousness — that  in 
Mary  a  tacit  forbearance  with  her  master's  failings, 
as  being  more  of  the  head  than  of  the  heart,  was  less 
unquestioning  than  it  had  been.  It  may  have  been 
that  I  saw  more  than  there  was.  I  generally  do.  At 
any  rate,  when  it  occurred  to  me  to  ask  whether 
Marvin  still  kept  up  his  bar,  I  certainly  touched 
something.  I  could  see  it  in  the  way  Mary  told  me 
that  everything  had  changed  since  the  girl  came.  I 
felt  for  her.  I  felt,  that  is,  as  if  some  bungler  had 


THE  PAGAN  63 

got  hold  of  my  rather  original  little  sketch  and  had 
finished  it  off  in  the  conventional  old  fashion. 

Marvin  had  a  child.  That  was  the  bare  fact.  But 
the  full  story  I  did  not  get  then.  Nor,  for  that  mat 
ter,  do  I  suppose  I  ever  shall.  I  did  pick  up  one  thing 
and  another,  though,  and  the  result  of  my  pickings 
I  shall  now  attempt  to  set  forth.  It  will  take  less 
time  if  I  do  it  in  my  own  way.  Particularly  as  I 
have  no  love  for  the  dialect  in  which  my  informa 
tion  came  to  me.  If  Truth  lie  within  that  pale,  let 
me  forever  go  without! 

The  affair  must  have  caused  a  good  deal  of  scandal 
at  the  time.  Marshbury  took  even  less  pride  in  the 
possession  of  a  Potter's  Field  than  in  its  lack  of  ten 
ants.  And  when  a  strange  woman  turned  up  from 
somewhere,  and  had  the  ill  grace  to  die  in  the  Poor- 
house,  people  felt  that  their  good  intentions  had  been 
imposed  upon.  Although  they  did  grant  that  it  was 
the  best  thing  the  woman  had  ever  done.  .  .  . 
But  the  worst  of  it  was  that  a  shock-headed  little  girl 
of  nine  or  ten  was  left  on  the  Overseers'  hands — a 
small  imp  into  whom  her  mother's  devil  had  returned 
with  seven  wickeder  than  himself.  It  took  no  time 
at  all  for  the  matron  of  the  Poorhouse  to  shake  her 
head  and  sigh:  "Blood  will  tell!"  Indeed,  she 
openly  expressed  surprise  that  the  Most  High  in  his 
mercy  had  neglected  to  take  the  child  unto  himself 
at  the  same  time  as  the  mother.  It  certainly  would 
have  saved  Mrs.  Lovejoy  an  infinity  of  trouble.  The 
mischief  that  child  was  not  up  to!  She  was  as  un- 


64  THE  PAGAN 

manageable  as  quicksilver.  Her  worst  trick  though, 
was  running  away;  and  she  had  a  passion  for  play 
ing  in  the  brook  of  which  no  amount  of  whipping 
could  cure  her.  Time  and  again  the  countryside  was 
beaten  by  night,  the  brook  dragged  from  one  end  to 
the  other,  only  to  have  her  turn  up  safe  and  sound 
and  very  hungry,  without  any  idea  where  she  had 
been  or  what  anxiety  she  had  caused.  Nothing  ever 
happened  to  her,  either.  It  was  so  notorious  that 
Mrs.  Lovejoy  would  often  have  been  glad  to  let 
her  go,  just  to  have  the  child  off  her  mind. 

It  did  not  take  this  inquiring  young  lady  long  to 
discover  Marvin.  Two  causes  operated  powerfully 
toward  that  effect.  The  first  of  them  was  that  she 
had  been  warned  against  him,  as  being  the  nearest 
and  most  dangerous  of  her  neighbours.  The  second 
was  that  her  brook  ran  through  his  orchard.  Accord 
ingly  she  waded  singing  upon  him  one  day  as  he  sat 
with  his  book  under  an  apple-tree. 

"Well!"  he  exclaimed,  as  the  childish  voice  sud 
denly  stopped  and  he  looked  up  to  find  a  bare-legged 
little  apparition  holding  scant  skirts  in  both  hands 
above  the  water.  "Who  are  you?" 

"I'm  Sassy,"  she  answered,  taking  him  in  with  big 
black  eyes.  "  That  ain't  my  real  name,  though.  The 
old  woman  says  it  ain't  Christian.  My  real  name's 
Daphne." 

"Well,  well!"  ejaculated  Marvin.  "Mary!"  he 
called  to  that  young  woman,  who  happened  to  be  out 
at  the  pump,  "here's  the  naiad  of  the  brook  come  to 


THE   PAGAN  65 

pay  me  a  visit!"  And  to  the  child,  who  balanced 
herself  on  a  smooth  stone  while  she  splashed  an  over 
hanging  branch  with  her  foot:  "What  old  woman 
is  that?  " 

"Mis'  Lovejoy,"  answered  she  of  the  unruly 
hair. 

' '  Lovejoy, ' '  repeated  Marvin .  ' '  Love- Joy .  That's 
a  nice  name."  He  was  a  little  at  a  loss  for  something 
to  say.  "  Is  she  your  mother?  " 

"  Huh ! "  cried  the  child.  "  It  may  be  a  nice  name, 
but  it's  all  that's  nice  about  her.  She's  just  as  horrid 
as  she  can  be.  I  hate  her.  She  ain't  my  mother  a 
bit.  It  'most  seems  as  if  I  never  had  any."  And  she 
began  to  visit  upon  the  water  a  series  of  spiteful 
kicks  that  spattered  even  Marvin's  page. 

"Oh!  "said  he. 

The  two  then  looked  at  each  other  for  a  minute. 
But  it  was  the  child  who  spoke  first. 

"What  do  you  do?" 

"What  do  I  do?"  queried  Marvin,  puzzled.  "I 
don't  do  much  of  anything  that  I  know  of." 

"I  mean  what  do  you  do  that's  bad?"  promptly 
returned  the  child.  "They  told  me  I  mustn't  ever 
speak  to  you,  because  you're  bad.  I'm  bad  too. 
That's  why  I  came." 

"Oh!"  laughed  Marvin.  "Supposing  you  tell  me 
what  you  do." 

"Lots  of  things — tear  my  clothes,  and  muddy  my 
shoes,  and  sit  in  the  grass,  and  climb  trees,  and  slap, 
and  kick,  and  run  away  whenever  I  get  a  chance. 


66  THE  PAGAN 

Most  of  all,  though,  I  play  in  the  brook.  Are  you  as 
bad  as  that?" 

Marvin  held  out  his  hand. 

"Just  about!"  he  told  her.  "But  don't  run  away 
from  here  yet  a  while,  Daphne — or  turn  into  a  laurel. 
We  have  too  many  things  to  talk  about,  you  and  I." 

So  it  was  that  Daphne  and  the  Pagan  first  cement 
ed  the  bonds  of  friendship.  In  the  eyes  of  the  un- 
appreciative  community  that  harboured  them,  how 
ever,  it  was  but  another  point  against  them  both. 
If  Marvin  had  known  what  pangs  his  small  ally  was 
compelled  to  endure  in  his  behalf,  he  would  long  be 
fore  have  done  what  he  did.  For,  as  Mrs.  Lovejoy 
had  ever  been  one  to  live  up  to  her  word,  Daphne 
spent  an  increasing  portion  of  her  days  in  cupboards. 
She  likewise  became  an  expert  on  the  elastic  proper 
ties  of  different  domestic  woods,  and  subsisted  chiefly 
on  bread  and  water.  But  when  not  otherwise  en 
gaged  she  spent  all  her  time  at  Marvin's,  to  the 
despair  and  dismay  of  all  in  authority  above  her. 
"Birds  of  a  feather!"  they  ominously  whispered. 
Until  at  last  things  got  too  serious  for  whispers,  and 
Mrs.  Lovejoy  took  matters  into  her  own  hands. 

It  must  have  been  quite  a  scene.  The  rumour  of  it 
still  filled  Marshbury  at  the  time  of  my  second  visit. 
Mary  Bennett  had  been  washing  windows  in  the 
kitchen,  and  I  got  the  most  authentic  details.  It 
seemed  that  Mrs.  Lovejoy  swooped  down  like  the 
wolf  on  the  fold,  one  afternoon  when  Daphne  was 
missing,  and  discovered  the  two,  as  she  expected,  in 


THE  PAGAN  67 

earnest  colloquy.  She  did  not  wait  for  preliminaries. 
I  must  say  I  rather  admire  it,  too — that  trait  which 
will  seek  the  point  at  any  cost,  without  fear  or  favour. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  find  in  that  child/'  she 
said,  to  Marvin — "born  of  a  common  woman  of  the 
street  that's  buried  in  the  Potter's  Field,  and  as  full 
of  Satan  as  an  onion  is  of  smell!  But  when  we're 
trying  to  do  our  best  for  her,  it  seems  too  bad  that 
you  should  come  along  with  your  heathenish  notions 
and  just  undo  everything.  I'll  thank  you  to  keep 
them  to  yourself.  Sassy,  you  come  along  with  me." 

"I  won't!"  declared  the  child,  roundly.  And  she 
ran  for  refuge  into  Marvin's  arms. 

Well,  she  stayed  there.  Of  course  there  was  a 
tremendous  row.  Mrs.  Lovejoy  stormed,  and  Daph 
ne  cried,  and  Marvin  manoeuvred  rather  helplessly 
between.  And  the  upshot  of  it  was  that  Mrs.  Love- 
joy  retired  ignominiously  from  the  field,  leaving  her 
adversary  the  somewhat  astonished  possessor  of  an 
infant.  Not  that  his  title  was  uncontested.  Mrs. 
Lovejoy's  last  word  had  been  that  she  would  put  the 
matter  before  the  Overseers,  and  she  did.  If  she  was 
a  harsh  woman,  she  was,  according  to  her  lights,  a 
just  one.  She  did  what  she  thought  best  in  circum 
stances  which  she  was  not  subtle  enough  to  under 
stand.  Sassy  was  an  intolerable  incubus  to  her,  but 
for  the  good  of  Sassy's  immortal  soul  she  thought 
the  waif  should  be  saved  from  Marvin.  After  much 
parleying,  however,  it  was  concluded  to  let  the  child 
stay.  She  had  been  given  her  chance.  The  com- 


68  THE  PAGAN 

munity  had  done  its  duty.  And  its  representative, 
in  the  person  of  Mrs.  Lovejoy,  realised  that,  after 
all,  there  was  a  limit  to  the  endurance  of  flesh  and 
blood.  It  would  therefore  perhaps  be  allowable  to 
let  the  orphan  go  into  hands  that  were  ready  to  care 
for  her.  The  community  promised  itself  that,  under 
this  provision  for  the  material  aspect  of  the  case,  it 
would  keep  a  watchful  eye  on  the  child's  moral  wel 
fare. 

I  am  not  sure  that  the  community  did  not  envy  for 
Marvin  a  little  moral  discipline  in  the  contract  which 
he  so  unexpectedly  undertook.  Certainly  there  were 
distinct  elements  of  humour  in  the  situation.  To 
drop  an  incorrigible  youngster  into  the  arms  of  a 
man  who  knew  no  more  about  children  than  he  did 
about  the  fourth  dimension,  and  who  had  risen  in 
the  morning  without  the  faintest  notion  of  adopting 
one,  might  suggest  very  dubious  results.  But  the 
brilliant  success  of  the  experiment  only  served  to  let 
in  a  little  light  on  the  ignorance  of  bachelors  and  the 
incorrigibility  of  waifs.  The  pair  entered  upon  a  life 
which  became  no  less  amazing  to  themselves  than 
to  the  community  at  large.  People  could  not  imagine 
where  the  two  discovered  the  secrets  of  virtue  and 
good  humour  with  which  they  suddenly  blossomed 
forth.  It  amounted  to  another  proof  of  their  innate 
perversity. 

At  all  events,  for  the  first  time  in  many  days  both 
of  them  were  happy.  They  paddled  unmolested  in 
their  brook.  They  invented  solemn  mysteries  about 


THE  PAGAN  69 

their  relation  to  it.  They  climbed  their  apple-trees. 
They  dug  their  garden.  They  kept  house — without 
a  bar.  They  told  stories.  They  explored  the  coun 
try-side  for  leagues  around.  Altogether  they  used 
to  make  me  wish,  when  I  came  to  meet  them  on  the 
hills,  that  I  could  be  a  pagan  too. 

in 

That  opportunity,  however,  did  not  come  to  me. 
The  same  train  of  circumstances  which  forced  me  to 
leave  Marshbury  sooner  than  I  expected  kept  me 
away  from  it  for  the  next  seven  or  eight  years.  But 
even  though  the  impression  which  I  have  been  re 
cording  had  lost  a  little  of  its  early  piquancy  in 
becoming  more  human,  there  was  something  about 
that  quiet  corner  of  New  England  which  always 
stayed  with  me.  In  crowded  streets  I  thought  of  its 
open  valley.  Through  the  chatter  of  drawing  rooms 
I  heard  its  running  water.  Among  people  sophisti 
cated  to  the  vanishing  point  I  remembered  Mrs. 
Bennett  and  Mary. 

So,  when  the  propitious  moment  arrived,  I  went 
back  to  them.  There  was,  I  fear,  a  touch  of  the  prac 
tical  even  in  my  sentiment.  I  had  started  to  scribble 
a  New  England  novel  and  I  wanted  to  be  quiet.  I 
therefore  thought  to  kill  the  most  birds  with  one 
stone  by  returning  to  Marshbury.  Be  that  as  it 
may,  when  I  drove  in  toward  the  town  it  was 
with  an  unaffected  thrill  that  I  suddenly  recognised 
the  old  feeling  of  the  river  road.  I  scarcely 


70  THE  PAGAN 

know  how  to  express  it.  There  are  indefinable 
states  of  emotion,  as  distinct  in  their  quality  as 
odours  or  colours.  And  only  the  surroundings 
which  awakened  them  first  can,  if  ever,  awaken 
them  again.  This,  I  suppose,  is  the  ground  of  that 
principle  of  conservatism  in  man  which  can  never 
reconcile  itself  with  the  flux  of  the  world. 

My  last  visit  ought  to  have  prepared  me  for 
changes.  The  drive,  however,  upset  the  inner  coun 
sels  with  which  I  had  fortified  myself — and  Mrs. 
Bennett.  She,  immortal  woman,  was  identically  the 
same  being  whom  I  had  known  eleven  years  earlier. 
Even  Mary  had  not  changed  so  much  between  twenty 
and  twenty-eight  as  she  had  between  seventeen  and 
twenty — although  it  was  curious  to  me  that  the 
effect  of  time  should  be  so  much  more  visible  in  the 
one  better  able  to  resist  it!  The  strong  colour  of 
her  girlhood  had  softened  into  that  delicate  bloom 
which  few  but  nuns  can  wear.  And  there  was  some 
thing  about  her  eyes  that  intrigued  me.  But  I  did 
not  wonder  long.  I  had  other  sensations  to  take 
account  of.  For  in  my  ointment  of  happiness  at 
getting  back  I  suddenly  discovered  a  very  large  and 
buzzing  fly. 

Not  that  the  Reverend  James  Wentworth  could 
precisely  be  compared  to  that  humble  creature.  I 
had  come,  though,  to  look  upon  the  Bennetts  as  my 
private  property,  upon  their  paradise  as  open  to  my 
self  alone.  And  to  find  it  invaded  by  the  new  min 
ister  put  my  nose  distinctly  out  of  joint.  Particular- 


THE  PAGAN  71 

>. 

ly  as  I  perceived  that  my  hostess  fancied  herself  and 
me  greatly  honoured  by  such  fellowship.  Of  course 
I  could  not  be  nasty  about  it.  In  other  circum 
stances,  in  fact,  I  might  have  appreciated  it  as  much 
as  anybody.  For  I  have  an  odd  sympathy  for  young 
clergymen.  Without  knowing  very  well  how  much 
they  deserve  it,  I  always  look  upon  them  as  among  the 
few  really  romantic  people  of  the  world — the  people 
who  follow  an  inner  light,  regardless  of  rival  lumina 
ries.  But  the  Reverend  James,  alas,  was  of  those 
who  carry  the  theory  to  its  logical  conclusion.  He 
was  inalienably  assured  that  his  own  inner  light  was 
the  sole  reflection  of  Truth,  and  that  all  men  else — 
with  whom  he  happened  to  differ — pursued  false 
fires. 

It  was  a  tremendous  disillusionment,  this  unex 
pected  change  of  milieu.  I  had  two  ideas  of  leaving 
on  the  spot.  The  new  atmosphere,  charged  with 
latent  argument,  was  the  medium  in  which  I  breathe 
least  easily.  Being,  however,  more  or  less  of  a  Jesuit, 
as  I  have  intimated,  I  merely  fumed  within — and 
took  copious  notes.  I  promised  myself  that  the  Rev 
erend  James  should  one  day  affront  a  wider  audience 
in  the  panoply  of  fiction.  It  was  doubtless  a  lame 
enough  compromise.  I  have  always  envied  those 
single  temperaments  that  can  identify  themselves 
with  one  side  of  a  cause.  For  myself,  I  am  unable  to 
do  it.  I  suppose  I  do  not  take  things  seriously 
enough,  or  people.  They  come  to  me  as  cases  rather 
than  as  questions.  I  have  no  sense  of  responsibility 


72  THE   PAGAN 

about  them.  At  any  rate,  the  case  of  the  Reverend 
James  I  proceeded  to  accept  as  an  element  of  my 
Marshbury  impression.  Little  did  I  foresee  how 
sharply  it  was  to  throw  into  relief  the  other  case  with 
which  I  had  so  long  been  occupied! 

That  had  evidently  grown  more  crucial  with 
the  years — Marvin's  case.  For  Daphne  was  dead. 
She  had  been  dead  almost  four  years,  it  seemed. 
And  in  circumstances —  One  could  not  expect  any 
thing  but  scandal  where  such  people  were  concerned, 
Mrs.  Bennett  told  me.  The  only  decent  thing  about 
it  was  that  she  and  the  child  had  died  together.  Any 
body  might  have  known  that  she  would  go  wrong. 
It  was  what  she  was  born  to.  She  had  done  it  before 
one  could  turn  around,  and  just  for  a  good-for-nothing 
young  scamp  she  hardly  had  time  to  get  acquainted 
with.  Old  Marvin,  however,  had  refused  to  turn  his 
face  from  her.  He  had  only  kept  her  the  more  care 
fully,  and  had  been  inconsolable  since.  Mary  had 
never  known  him  so  queer.  But — 

Yes,  it  was  evident  that  there  was  a  "but."  There 
were  things  of  another,  a  darker,  kind :  things  which 
were  not  so  easy  to  put  into  words.  Between  Mary's 
eyes  and  her  mother's  mysterious  shrugs  it  was  much 
as  ever  that  I  succeeded  in  getting  at  what  the  busi 
ness  was  about.  If  it  had  not  been  for  the  plain- 
spoken  Mr.  Wentworth — !  There  was  a  strangeness 
to  the  thing,  though,  when  I  got  it.  There  was  a 
strangeness  which  I  never  dreamed  eleven  years  be 
fore.  It  was  only  the  stranger  for  the  apparently 


THE  PAGAN  73 

conventional  touches  which  my  impression  had  in 
the  meantime  received.  But  as  I  write  of  it  I  realise 
Mrs.  Bennett's  difficulty  in  speaking  to  me.  It  was 
not  a  thing  that  you  could  say  in  so  many  words  and 
then  go  out  of  the  room.  You  had  to  know  the  place, 
the  people,  the  circumstances.  It  was  so  largely  an 
effect  of  relativities,  and  of  relativities  different  for 
each  person  whom  they  touched. 

It  all  began  with  Daphne's  death.  Then  Marvin, 
who  for  seven  years  had  been  as  much  like  other 
people  as  he  could  be,  said  Mrs.  Bennett,  suddenly 
turned  more  eccentric  than  ever.  He  refused  to  let 
the  girl  be  buried  like  a  Christian,  in  the  cemetery. 
Of  course  she  wasn't  one;  but  it  was  queer  that  he 
should  be  the  first  to  say  so.  He  said  the  place  for  her 
was  between  him  and  the  water,  and  he  made  them 
dig  a  grave  in  his  own  orchard — on  a  sort  of  little 
mound  there  was  beside  the  brook.  If  it  had  been 
anybody  else,  the  Selectmen  would  have  stopped 
him.  But  seeing  it  was  that  girl — !  And  instead  of 
getting  her  a  proper  tombstone,  which  he  could  well 
afford  and  which  everybody  supposed  he  would  do, 
considering  the  store  he  set  by  her,  he  just  planted 
on  her  grave  a  sprig  of  lambkill. 

That  was  natural  enough  in  a  way,  opined  Mrs. 
Bennett.  People  like  to  put  flowers  on  graves.  But 
lambkill!  Laurel,  he  called  it.  He  said  that  was 
Daphne's  tree.  It  was  all  a  part  of  some  heathenish 
business  they  had  had  between  them.  Mary  thought 
he  got  it  out  of  his  books.  Anyway,  he  spent  all  his 


74  THE  PAGAN 

time  taking  care  of  it.  Of  course  it's  right  to  keep 
graves  looking  tidy.  But  you  don't  build  little  green 
houses  over  the  flowers  in  winter.  Neither  do  you 
get  up  in  thunder-storms,  in  the  middle  of  the  night, 
to  go  out  and  attend  to  them.  If  the  Lord  intends 
things  to  be  taken  care  of,  he  takes  care  of  them,  in 
spite  of  thunder-storms. 

The  strangest  part  of  it,  though,  was  something 
more  unnatural  still — something  almost  supernatural. 
The  laurel  sprig  had  followed  for  a  time  the  ordinary 
course  of  cuttings;  had  by  sheer  force  of  tenderness 
been  kept  alive,  and  had  at  last  developed  into  a 
healthy  little  plant  that  could  live  alone.  But  then 
of  a  sudden  it  received  a  new  and  secret  impulse.  It 
began  to  grow  as  no  laurel  had  ever  grown  before. 
There  was  nothing  like  it  in  the  whole  country.  It 
outdistanced  at  a  bound  the  humble  shrubs  from 
which  it  sprang,  and  bade  fair  to  rival  even  the  great 
mountain  laurel  of  the  woods.  And  such  flowers  as 
it  bore — such  deep  and  burning  clusters  as  never 
would  have  passed  for  cousins,  even,  to  the  faint- 
flushed  wax  of  the  lambkill! 

The  thing  was  unnatural  enough  in  itself,  Heaven 
knew.  But  Marvin  made  it  a  scandal.  It  hardly 
needed  Mrs.  Bennett  to  make  it  plain.  He  insisted 
that  Daphne  had  turned  into  a  laurel,  after  all.  He 
called  the  bush  by  her  name.  He  spent  all  his  time 
listening  to  the  growing  whisper  of  its  leaves.  He 
said  the  strangest  things  to  Mary  about  it — things 
stranger  than  any  he  had  told  her  in  the  days  when 


THE  PAGAN  75 

he  used  to  say  that  there  was  a  girl  singing  to  him  in 
the  brook.  A  cult  so  extraordinary  was  not  one  to 
pass  unnoticed.  Even  if  Mr.  Wentworth  had  not 
been  in  the  village  to  formulate  the  moral  issues  of 
the  case,  the  miraculous  laurel  waved  there  on  its 
mound,  more  indecently  conspicuous  every  day  to 
those  who  passed  on  the  road.  An  uneasiness  spread 
among  them.  It  was  a  reproach  to  Church  and  State 
alike  that  such  things  should  go  on  in  their  midst. 
It  corrupted  youth  and  was  an  offence  to  age.  Some 
thing  should  be  done. 

Mr.  Wentworth,  accordingly,  did  it.  He,  like  Mrs. 
Lovejoy  of  old,  went  straight  to  Marvin.  And  again 
I  could  not  help  admiring  the  simplicity  of  that  at 
tack.  I  almost  wished,  too,  that  I  might  have  been 
present  at  the  encounter.  It  must  have  been  such  a 
contrast  of  types  as  one  does  not  often  witness  in 
this  half-way  world.  But  it  was  not  difficult  to 
gather  what  happened.  It  was  wonderful  how 
little  Mary  said,  and  how  much  she  expressed ! 
Almost  as  wonderful  were  the  volubility,  the  ex 
citement,  with  which  Wentworth  came  back  from 
his  interview. 

"He  is  an  enemy  of  God!"  cried  the  minister. 
"He  professes  to  believe  in  God;  but  'he  that  is  not 
with  me  is  against  me/  He  has  faith  neither  in 
heaven  nor  hell.  He  denies  the  sacredness  of  Scrip 
ture.  He  says  a  soul  is  nothing  but  a  word — that 
there  is  as  much  soul  in  a  ruby  or  a  rose  as  there  is  in 
himself!  And  the  kind  of  immortality  he  looks 


76  THE   PAGAN 

forward  to  is  worse  than  none.  He  is  a  perfect 
pagan!" 

The  table  rang  with  it  for  days.  Of  course  it  was 
Mary  who  supplied  the  necessary  additions  to  the 
story.  Incidentally,  albeit  unconsciously,  she  like 
wise  supplied  additions  to  her  own  story  of  which  I 
had  begun  to  feel  a  certain  lack.  Marvin  had  re 
ceived  his  caller  courteously,  it  seemed;  had  even 
consented,  with  a  new  quietness  that  had  come  upon 
him,  to  listen  to  Wentworth's  exhortations.  But 
the  poor  zealous  young  man  finally  lost  his  head  and 
allowed  himself  to  say  that  they  both  knew  where 
Daphne  had  gone,  and  it  wasn't  heaven  either.  Well, 
the  minister  departed  rather  suddenly,  and  Marvin 
went  out  to  his  laurel  tree. 

With  all  this  going  on  at  the  table,  I  found  it  hard 
to  keep  up  my  Jesuitism.  I  was  more  than  ever 
caught  by  the  case  of  this  pagan  who  was  the  legiti 
mate  child  of  a  New  England  village.  It  was  such 
a  strange  example  of  the  protean  perversity  of  things 
to  melt  into  one  another.  Then  the  poetry  of  it 
simply  undid  me.  I  sat  there  smugly  writing  New 
England  novels,  but  I  coujd  never  have  imagined 
anything  like  this.  And  the  trains  it  started  off — ! 
Had  that  little  tree  indeed  despoiled  the  secrets  of 
the  grave?  Had  some  taproot,  blindly  groping 
through  the  dark  soil,  become  a  channel  whereby 
was  made  manifest  the  alchemy  of  the  earth?  Was 
the  laurel  literally  a  transfiguration?  Might  it  be 
proof  of  the  infinite  resource  of  life  that  that  unhappy 


THE  PAGAN  77 

heart  which  life  had  broken  should  at  once  forget  its 
pain  and  dishonour  and  be  transmuted  into  beauty? 

To  me  more  than  ever  the  wind  and  the  waters 
spoke  mysteriously.  For  me  more  than  ever  was 
there  a  kinship  between  crystal  and  plant  and  crea 
ture  transcending  the  jealous  immortality  of  man. 
There  was  neither  superiority  nor  inferiority.  It 
was  all  part  of  the  unceasing  life  of  the  earth — of 
that  -deathless  ebb  and  flow  which  draws  the  ancient 
elements  again  and  again  into  new  combinations, 
which  always  has  wrought  with  the  same  ones  and 
always  must,  in  changing  forms  of  beauty  and 
wonder. 

And  I  came  the  nearest  ever  to  seeking  Marvin's 
acquaintance.  He  made  me  think  of  what  Pater 
says  of  Leonardo,  who  "seemed  to  those  about  him 
as  one  listening  to  a  voice  silent  for  other  men."  I 
was  interested  to  the  verge  of  indiscretion.  I  even 
went  so  far,  I  must  confess,  as  to  walk  oftener  than 
elsewhere  on  the  Poorhouse  road — whence  could  be 
seen  the  sacred  laurel  above  its  little  stream.  It  was 
indeed  a  prodigy.  Such  blossoms  I  never  saw  in  my 
life.  It  turned  one's  head  to  see  them  there,  aflame 
among  their  glossy  green,  with  the  brook  skirling 
below.  Mary  told  me  that  Marvin  would  never 
pick  them.  Indeed  he  never  picked  any  flowers 
now,  she  said.  It  began  the  spring  after  Daphne 
died,  when  the  trailing  arbutus  came  out.  She  had 
brought  him  some,  one  day,  thinking  to  please 
him.  But  he  asked  her  not  to  do  it  again.  It 


78  THE  PAGAN 

hurt  them,  he  said.  And  they  were  Daphne's 
cousins,  the  arbutus.  .  . 

I  do  not  know  how  far  I  might  have  gone.  But 
there  came  a  day  when  all  hope  of  acquaintance  was 
suddenly  cut  off.  There  came  a  day!  I  shall  never 
forget  it.  I  had  been  on  a  long  walk  in  the  country. 
My  book  was  stuck,  and  I  knew  of  old  that  the  only 
way  to  unstick  a  book  is  to  let  it  alone.  So  I  walked 
miles  and  miles  in  one  of  those  delicious  New  Eng 
land  afternoons  of  early  summer  when  the  air  is  an 
elixir  of  eternity.  It  made  me  think  of  the  Pagan 
and  it  quickened  in  me  a  growing  sense  that  the 
earth  existed  as  a  whole  and  endured  as  a  whole; 
that  men  were  but  one  phase  of  its  immense  secret 
energy  whose  so-called  consciousness  had  unbalanced 
them  a  little,  was  merely  another  mode  of  an  energy 
more  astounding  still,  as  light  and  heat  are  but  two 
modes  of  vibrations  which  possess  others  undreamed. 
It  was  for  this  reason,  perhaps,  that  I  came  home  by 
the  Poorhouse  road. 

As  I  rounded  the  turn  by  the  orchard  I  looked  as 
usual  toward  the  laurel  tree.  To  my  surprise,  I  saw 
figures  moving  on  the  mound;  and  there  was  a  cart 
tied  at  the  gate.  It  was  so  out  of  the  ordinary  that 
I  stopped  in  spite  of  myself.  Then  I  suddenly  dis 
covered  that  the  laurel  was  gone!  I  could  not  believe 
my  eyes.  The  thing  was  too  inconceivable.  It  was 
to  me  as  if  I  had  stumbled  upon  a  scene  of  murder. 
In  the  first  horror  of  it,  in  the  certainty  that  some 
thing  terrible  had  happened,  I  forgot  my  habit  of 


THE  PAGAN  79 

taking  no  personal  part  in  that  village  drama.  My 
unuttered  feeling  for  Marvin  caught  me  like  a  hand 
and  led  me,  choking,  toward  the  mound. 

All  I  had  eyes  for  at  first  was  the  laurel.  It  lay 
inert  on  the  ground,  that  a  few  hours  before  had 
waved  so  royally  aloft;  and  already  the  magic  flowers 
looked  a  little  wilted  in  their  green.  Beside  it 
crouched  Marvin.  He  said  nothing;  but  the  inarti 
culate  sounds  that  came  from  him  were  the  most 
piteous  I  ever  heard.  And  the  way  he  caressed  his 
stricken  beauty  was  more  than  one  could  bear  to  see. 
No  lover  could  more  tenderly,  more  passionately, 
address  the  limbs  of  his  dead.  He  straightened  out 
contorted  twigs.  He  lifted  petals  from  their  contact 
with  the  ground.  Now  and  again  he  put  his  hand  to 
the  poor  sawn  trunk,  whence  a  little  pale  moisture 
was  oozing,  as  if  to  stanch  a  mortal  flow.  And  all 
the  while  he  kept  by  him  the  severed  knot  of  the  root, 
with  its  one  thick  stem  that  had  been  broken  off 
deep  in  the  ground. 

After  the  first  instant  the  indecency  of  looking  at 
such  a  spectacle  overwhelmed  me.  I  turned  away. 
I  noticed  Mary  then  for  the  first  time.  Two  men 
whom  I  recognised  as  farm-hands  of  the  Bennetts 
were  also  there,  and  another  whom  I  did  not  know. 
And  Went  worth.  Wentworth!  All  the  shock  of  the 
moment  suddenly  flared  into  my  long  latent  dislike 
of  the  man. 

"Are  you  responsible  for  this?"  I  almost  shouted 
at  him. 


80  THE  PAGAN 

I  could  have  killed  him,  and  he  knew  it.  Yet  that 
certainty  of  right  and  wrong  which  is  the  power  of 
his  type  did  not  desert  him.  I  had  a  sub-conscious 
appreciation  of  it,  so  keen  is  my  accursed  sense  of 
such  things,  even  in  my  fury. 

"Yes,  sir,"  he  answered.  "I  am!"  Oh,  he  was 
not  afraid  or  ashamed!  He  was  of  the  stuff  that  has 
kindled  fires  and  fed  them  since  the  world  began. 
And  he  went  on  as  if  he  had  been  in  his  pulpit — or 
at  the  stake:  " I  have  wished  that  this  parish  should 
administer  both  rebuke  and  reparation.  I  have  long 
regretted  that  heathen  rites  should  be  tolerated  in  a 
Christian  community — as  also  that  a  proper  charity 
should  not  be  shown  to  all,  irrespective  of  creed.  I 
therefore  took  steps,  after  asking  counsel  of  God,  to 
attain  both  ends.  I  cut  down  this  tree  because  it 
was  a  public  scandal,  an  occasion  of  stumbling  to 
Christians  and  sinners  alike.  The  very  children  of 
our  village  were  beginning  to  be  infected  by  its 
heresy.  And  I  shall  adorn  the  house  of  God  with 
these  spoils,  thus  to  expiate  a  sin  and  to  consecrate 
anew  a  work  of  God  which  has  been  devoted  to  un 
holy  uses.  But  I  have  not  wished  to  be  hasty  in  the 
matter,  to  be  needlessly  harsh  and  wounding.  Fur 
thermore,  it  has  been  my  desire  to  make  good  a  neg 
lect  which  has  rested  too  long  on  the  Christian  con 
science  of  this  community.  I  have  accordingly  taken 
steps  to  mark  with  fitness  the  last  resting-place  of  an 
unfortunate  young  woman  who  apparently  from  her 
birth  was  more  sinned  against  than  sinning." 


THE  PAGAN  81 

He  pointed  behind  him.  Where  the  laurel  had 
been  I  saw  now  a  slab  of  grey  granite.  And  cut  into 
it  I  read  these  words: 

DAPHNE  MARVIN 

1894-1911 

"He  that  is  without  sin  among  you, 
let  him  first  cast  a  stone  at  her." 


WHITE  BOMBAZINE 


AND,  like  all  serious  patrons  of  the  Good,  the 
True,  and  the  Beautiful,  we  devoted  our  last 
afternoon  to  the  Spring  Academy.  Of  course 
it  turned  out  to  be  as  academysh  as  ever,  and  the 
medals  had  as  usual  gone  to  people  who  deserved 
them  less  than  I.  We  therefore  amused  ourselves  by 
playing  our  favourite  Academy  game.  The  Academy 
game  consists  in  stalking  haughtily  by  the  obvious 
pictures,  eyes  averted  and  noses  on  high,  and  in 
darting  with  delight  upon  some  forlorn  hope,  worry 
ing  over  it  until  everybody  else  comes  to  stare — 
when  you  silently  steal  away.  The  success  of  this 
game,  I  must  admit,  depends  largely  upon  Nick. 
For  he  has  inches,  hath  Nick,  and  an  air  that  over 
alls  cannot  bottle  up. 

We  had  thus  decoyed  the  multitude  from  the  first 
Hallgarten  picture  to  a  skied  futurism  that  nobody 
could  make  head  or  tail  of,  and  were  casting  eagle 
eyes  about  for  our  next  pounce,  when  what  should  I 
spy  but  the  familiar  signature  of  Zephine  Stumpf ! 
I  was  feeling  silly  anyway,  and  the  sudden  recollec 
tion  of  Zephine  was  too  much  for  me.  I  collapsed  on 
to  a  sofa. 

82 


WHITE  BOMBAZINE  83 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Nick,  ready  for  the  coming 
pounce. 

I  could  only  wag  my  head  hysterically  and  wave 
at  the  wall  in  front  of  us.  It  was  enough  for  Nick, 
however,  who  always  had  superhuman  intelligence 
and  a  catalogue. 

"What  is  loose  mit  Zephine?"  demanded  he. 

Nothing  was  loose  with  Zephine — except  her 
painting,  as  it  ought  to  be.  Her  picture,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  was  very  decent — some  children,  sketchily 
but  becomingly  dressed  in  splashes  of  sunlight,  in 
an  orchard.  Zephine  had  been  painting  pink  infants 
in  sunshiny  orchards  ever  since  I  first  knew  her  in 
darkest  Greenwich  Village — when  she  could  get  hold 
of  the  orchard  or  the  infant — and  this  was  quite  the 
best  of  the  lot.  But  I  could  only  gibber  like  an  im 
becile  and  wipe  my  streaming  eyes. 

Nick  gave  me  up  as  a  bad  job.  He  proceeded  to 
examine  the  picture.  He  looked  at  it  from  one  side, 
he  looked  at  it  from  the  other  side,  he  poked  his  nose 
into  it  to  see  how  it  was  painted,  he  cocked  his  eye 
at  it  from  across  the  room.  Finally  he  came  back  to 
me. 

"You  can  have  delirium  tremens  till  you're  black 
in  the  face,  if  you  choose,"  he  announced,  "but  I 
like  Zephine.  I'm  going  to  buy  her." 

"  I  wish  you  would,"  I  managed  to  hiccough.  " She 
deserves  it." 

"  But  why  do  you  go  on  about  her  like  a  demented 
cockatoo?" 


84  WHITE  BOMBAZINE 

" It's  only  her— her  clothes!"  I  snorted,  going  off 
again. 

Nick  went  off  too — to  the  Secretary's  office.  And 
he  presently  returned,  brandishing  a  receipt  at  me. 

"There  now!  She's  mine  and  I  shall  stand  up  for 
her!"  he  exclaimed.  "Why,  species  of  a  beast,  do 
you  make  fun  of  a  sister  brush's  clothes?" 

"I  don't  make  fun  of  them,"  I  retorted.  "I  al 
ways  admired  them  very  much.  Only "  I  had  to 

stuff  my  handkerchief  into  my  mouth  lest  my  inept 
cachinnations  profane  anew  the  decorous  shades  of 
the  National  Academy  of  Design. 

"Only  what,  animal?"  pursued  Nick  severely. 

"They  were  so— so  original!"  I  gasped. 

"Original?  How  can  anyone's  clothes  be  origi 
nal?"  inquired  Nick.  "I  have  tried  all  my  life  to 
invent  original  clothes,  and  never  achieved  anything 
more  original  than  when  I  was  young  enough  to  in 
duce  a  scandalised  tailor  to  sew  blue  serge  with  green 
thread." 

"Well,  hers  were,"  I  insisted.  "And  do  you  have 
the  courage  to  tell  me,  Nick  Marler,  that  you  never 
saw  them — or  heard  of  them?" 

Nick  signified  that  such  was  the  case.  And  at  the 
thought  of  what  lay  before  me  I  was  near  erupting 
again.  But  Nick  held  me  to  sanity  with  a  cold  grey 
eye. 

"I  suppose  she  wasn't  very  well  off,"  I  began. 
"None  of  us  were,  of  course.  And  I  suppose  she 
must  have  had  some  German  philosophy  in  her  sys- 


WHITE  BOMBAZINE  85 

tern.  Her  people  came  from  Halle.  So  she  set  about 
solving  the  problem  of  dress.  She  said  no  woman 
could  begin  to  dress  who  hadn't  at  least  ten  thou 
sand  a  year  to  do  it  on.  For  other  women,  then,  the 
only  thing  was  a  sort  of  uniform — like  postmen,  or 
peasants.  She  really  would  have  liked  the  costume 
of  Thuringian  village  girls,  she  said,  but  was  afraid 
it  might  be  too  conspicuous  for  New  York.  She 
therefore  evolved  a  uniform  of  her  own — always  the 
same  thing  for  the  same  time  of  day." 

"Very  sensible,  too,"  put  in  Nick. 

"The  real  beauty  of  it,  though,  was  its  com 
pactness.  :She  only  kept  three  or  four  things 
going,  and  they  were  all" — I  caught  my  breath — 
"reversible." 

"Reversible!    How  do  you  mean  reversible?" 

"How  do  I  mean  reversible?  I  mean  reversible. 
I  remember  a  certain  brown  skirt  in  which  I  oftenest 
saw  her.  When  Zephine  went  to  a  party,  Nicholas, 
what  did  Zephine  do?  Zephine  turned  her  brown  skirt 
inside  out,  Nicholas,  and  then  it  suffered  a  sea- 
change  to  a  pea-green  rich  and  strange,  Nicholas, 
with  brown  leather  bindings  and  big  silver  buttons 
— for  Schonheit's  sake." 

The  madness  began  to  flicker  again  within  me. 
But  Nick,  out  of  the  perversity  of  his  heart,  refused 
me  the  shadow  of  a  smile. 

"What  else  had  Zephine?"  queried  he. 

"What  else  had  Zephine?"  echoed  I,  nettled  at 
Nick's  gravity.  "'Let  me  see.  Zephine  had  else  a 


86  WHITE  BOMBAZINE 

creation  of  e*cru  silk,  which  in  conjunction  with  the 
pea-green  skirt  and  the  leather  bindings  and  the 
silver  buttons  completed  her  effect  of  splendour  for 
varnishing  days  and  studio  teas.  But  minus  the 
pea-green  skirt  it  might  be  a  morning  dress,  or  a 
painting  apron,  or  a  dust  cloak,  or — who  knows, 
Nicholas? — perchance  a  robe  of  night." 

Nick  looked  at  me  and  I  looked  at  Nick. 

"Do  I  shock  you,  my  Nicholas?  Nicholas  mine, 
be  not  shocked.  You  know  the  morals  of  Greenwich 
Village,  how  milk-mild  they  are,  as  compared  to  its 
scarlet  conversation.  And  Zephine  never  made  any 
bones  about  the  secrets  of  her  toilet.  She  had,  for 

instance,  a No,  Nick;  I  cannot  pronounce  it. 

You  gaze  at  me  too  solemnly,  and  we  are  surrounded 
by  too  many  of  what  you  would  call  the  best  people 
in  New  York.  Very  likely  you're  right.  It  is  not 
given  me  to  read  their  hearts.  But  it  is  given  me  to 
inform  you  that  Zephine  also  had  a  shiny  grey  skirt 
of  state,  of  super-state,  which  by  means  of  unimagin 
able  buttonings,  bookings,  loopings,  and  heaven 
knows  what,  transformed  itself  at  will  into  a  blouse 
or  an  opera  cloak.  And  she  had  only  one  hat,  which 
in  summer  was  a  sailor  and  in  winter  a  sort  of  Turk's 
turban.  The  other  girls  said  she  was  always  urging 
them  to  go  and  do  likewise." 

I  giggled  to  myself  at  the  remembrance  of  it. 
But  as  for  Nick,  he  obstinately  continued  to  frown 
upon  me  like  a  Spanish  inquisitor. 

"Look  here,"  he  pronounced  at 'last.     "I  don't 


WHITE  BOMBAZINE  87 

know  whether  you're  drawing  on  the  recollections 
of  an  extremely  lurid  past,  or  whether  you're  being 
visited  by  the  divine  afflatus.  But  it  strikes  me  that 
you're  more  amused  than  anyone  else.  It  also 
strikes  me  that  this  is  a  pretty  sleazy  line  of  stuff 
for  one  man  to  pull  or  another  to  listen  to." 

With  which  Zephine  dropped  abruptly  from  our 
conversation. 

II 

Having  done  his  duty  by  the  arts  and  crafts  of  his 
country,  Nick  was  suddenly  moved,  on  that  eve  of 
his  departure,  to  go  miles  uptown — to  Washington 
Bridge.  He  has  rather  an  eye,  Nick.  I  had  forgot 
ten  how  the  tall  arches  of  High  Bridge  stand  up 
against  the  bright  water  and  smoking  gold  of  a  Har 
lem  sunset.  It  was  better  than  the  Academy,  if  I  do 
so  say  who  am  a  slave  of  the  brush.  And  it  inspired 
us  to  pick  up  a  dinner  somewhere  in  the  neighbour 
hood. 

I  don't  know  whether  it  was  because  the  place 
was  German  or  whether  it  was  that  the  proprietor 
produced  for  Nick  such  a  Moselle  as  you  didn't  come 
across  every  day  even  in  that  faraway  year.  But  as 
we  sipped  the  last  of  it  and  debated  how  we  might 
worthily  spend  our  last  evening  on  our  native  shore, 
Nick  casually  proposed : 

"Let's  go  and  see  Zephine." 

I  am  not  usually  the  one  to  lag  behind.  But  Nick 
had  refused,  with  opprobrious  implications,  to  play 


88  WHITE  BOMBAZINE 

with  me,  and  it  seemed  good  to  me  to  refuse  to  play 
with  Nick. 

"Come  on,  Herb,"  he  persisted.  "Don't  be  a 
spotted  zebra.  Let's  go  find  Zephine."  And  he 
called  for  the  bill. 

"How  on  earth  do  you  propose  to  find  Zephine  at 
this  time  of  day — and  we  sailing  for  Norway  at  ten 
to-morrow  morning?" 

"Where  do  you  think  I  was  born — Island  Pond?" 
inquired  Nick  suavely.  "There's  a  telephone  book 
in  front  of  your  nose,  and  a  directory  beside  it.  In 
addition  to  which  I  might  remind  you  that  her  ad 
dress  was  in  the  catalogue." 

"What  was  it?"  I  asked.  I  knew  in  my  reluctant 
soul  that  if  Nick  had  made  up  his  mind  there  was  no 
use  sulking. 

"0,  Corlear's  Hook  some  place,"  answered  Nick, 
charming  the  heart  of  an  anxious-looking  waiter — 
if  the  heart  may  be  charmed  by  that  which  is  put 
into  the  hand. 

"Corlear's  Hook!"  I  exclaimed.  "She's  moved 
then,  though  it  sounds  enough  like  Zephine.  But 
it's  some  way  from  Washington  Bridge." 

Nick  didn't  mind,  however.  Neither  the  taxi  man 
who  presently  undertook  to  jounce  us  from  one  end 
of  Manhattan  Island  to  the  other.  And  I  am  happy 
to  add  that  we  ran  over  no  one  on  the  way,  though 
we  did  run  out  of  gasoline.  Incidentally  Nick 
soothed  my  ruffled  feelings  by  making  me  tell  him 
about  Zephine  all  over  again.  I  fancied,  though,  it 


WHITE   BOMBAZINE  89 

was  really  the  Corlear's  Hook  that  caught  him.  He 
made  me  promise  that  I  would  say  nothing  to  Zeph- 
ine  about  the  picture. 

At  Corlear's  Hook  there  was  no  Zephine.  It 
wasn't  that  she  was  dining  out,  or  anything  so  sim 
ple  as  that.  She  had  gone  up  to  paint  at  Fort  Lee, 
in  a  farmhouse  whose  whereabouts  the  janitor  en 
deavoured  to  make  plain  to  us  in  the  accent  of 
Warsaw.  To  Fort  Lee  we  accordingly  proceeded,  to 
the  vast  delight  of  the  taxi  man.  Luckily  it  was  a 
moonlight  night,  or  we  never  would  have  succeeded 
in  tracking  Zephine  to  her  farmhouse.  As  it  was, 
we  nearly  tumbled  off  the  Palisades  a  dozen  times. 

I  have  no  idea  what  time  of  night  it  was  when  we 
finally  floundered  through  an  orchard  to  Zephine's 
dark  and  silent  lair.  I  bet  Nick  she  wouldn't  be  in 
it.  Nick  bet  me  she  would.  She  was — fast  asleep 
in  bed.  But  we  routed  her  out,  and  she  parleyed 
with  us  through  a  window  while  we  kicked  our  heels 
on  the  edge  of  the  piazza.  It  was  rather  like  the 
third  act  of  " Faust" — except  that  Zephine  was  a  con 
tralto.  She  had  a  pleasant  gurgle  in  her  voice  that  I 
had  forgotten.  She  also  had  the  proper  yellow  braid 
over  her  shoulder,  if  not  two  of  them.  And  the 
whole  place  was  operatic  with  apple  blossoms  and 
moonlight. 

Many  ladies  might  have  betrayed  a  certain  sur 
prise  at  receiving  a  visit  at  an  unknown  hour  of  the 
night,  in  a  New  Jersey  orchard,  from  a  New  York 
taxicab  and  two  men  of  whom  they  had  never  seen 


90  WHITE   BOMBAZINE 

one  before  in  their  life.  Not  so  Zephine.  She  ac 
cepted  it  as  perfectly  natural  that  I,  who  had  not 
seen  her  for  longer  than  either  of  us  could  remember, 
should  feel  irresistibly  impelled  to  bid  her  farewell 
before  sailing  for  Norway,  and  that  Nick,  whose 
name  she  had  apparently  never  heard,  should  pay 
this  somewhat  unusual  tribute  to  a  lady  whose  work 
he  had  happened  to  admire. 

In  token  of  his  admiration  Nick  invited  her  to 
join  us  in  a  little  drive — at  this  I  heard  a  snicker 
from  the  direction  of  the  taxi — and  help  us  pick  up 
an  ice  on  the  way.  Zephine  judicially  considered 
the  matter,  stroking  one  of  her  Marguerite's  braids, 
but  eventually  opined  that  she  would  better  not. 
She  had  models  coming  at  sunrise,  and  she  couldn't 
paint  if  she  were  sleepy. 

"0!"  sighed  Nick  in  evident  disappointment. 
"Couldn't  you  put  your  models  off?  What  I  really 
hoped  was  that  you  would  get  a  little  acquainted 
with  us,  or  with  me,  and  consent  to  go  to  Norway 
too." 

That  was  what  I  heard  Nick  Marler  say,  in  Zeph- 
ine's  moonlit  orchard,  swinging  his  long  legs  off  her 
rickety  little  piazza!  And  I  listened  for  her  answer 
with  my  mouth  open.  For  I  knew  she  was  perfectly 
capable  of  taking  Nick  at  his  word.  Her  deep  gur 
gle,  however,  reassured  me. 

"That  is  awfully  nice  of  you,  Mr.  Marler.  If  I 
had  sold  my  picture  in  the  Academy,  I  might.  But 
as  it  is,  I'm  afraid  Norway  is  not  for  me." 


WHITE   BOMBAZINE  91 

"0,  I  didn't  mean  that!"  cried  Nick,  secretly  giving 
me  an  infernal  pinch  of  reminder.  "I  do  hope  you 
won't  think  me  rude,  or  anything  like  that.  But 
Herb  here  is  going  as  my  guest,  to  give  me  his  expert 
opinion  on  some  old  enamels  we  have  an  idea  of 
hunting  up,  and  we'd  be  ever  so  pleased  if  you'd  be 
good  enough  to  come  along  too  and  make  one  of  the 
jury." 

ill 

She  went! 

Reader,  whom  I  feel  it  unworthy  to  cajole  by  the 
use  of  any  epithet  so  simple  or  so  designing  as  gentle, 
— reader,  I  who  went  too,  I  who  heard,  who  saw,  and 
who  now  narrate,  do  not  profess  to  have  the  charcoal 
sketch  of  a  notion  how  we  really  embarked  on  our 
fantastic  adventure.  I  therefore  feel  somewhat 
hopeless  of  communicating  it  to  you,  or  of  convincing 
you  that  you  have  not  unwittingly  been  seduced  into 
starting  a  story  unfit  for  ladylike  or  gentlemanly 
ears.  To  charge  it  to  the  account  of  the  Moselle, 
however,  is  what  I  refuse.  I  can  only  propound  the 
thesis  that  the  geography  of  "this  goodly  promon 
tory,"  the  unstable  planet  whereon  we  spin,  has  as 
yet  been  imperfectly  mapped  out.  I  am  unable,  at 
all  events,  to  accept  the  popular  theory  that  its  sur 
face  is  divided  between  the  World  and  the  Half 
World.  Even  you,  epithetless  reader,  have  heard  of 
a  tract  lying  between  the  two,  and  overlapping  them 
both,  vaguely  designated  as  Bohemia.  But  my 
own  mild  explorations  have  convinced  me  that  Bo- 


92  WHITE  BOMBAZINE 

hernia  is  a  name  not  comprehensive  enough  for  a 
certain  dark  intervening  continent  of  which  are 
denizens  my  very  good  friends  Nick  and  Zephine. 
And  I  hereby  invite  you,  if  not  to  comprehend  their 
case,  at  least  in  a  spirit  of  tolerance  to  consider  the 
same. 

Do  not  expect  me,  therefore,  to  fill  up  valuable 
space  by  assuring  you  in  so  many  words  of  Zephine's 
epic  simplicity,  or  of  Nick's  romantic  freedom  to  do 
whatever  came  into  his  head.  He  told  me  afterward 
that  when  he  saw  our  friend  and  her  braids  and  the 
apple  blossoms  and  everything,  he  just  had  to  find 
out  whether  I  had  been  lying  about  her;  and  if  she 
hadn't  agreed  to  go  with  us  he  would  have  cancelled 
our  passage. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  did.  Not  many  hours  after 
our  return  from  Fort  Lee  he  sent  me  off  by  myself  to 
get  Zephine.  "And  by  the  way"  he  added,  just  as 
I  was  starting,  "come  to  the  Cunard  pier." 

"What  pier?"  demanded  I  in  astonishment. 

"The  Cunard,"  he  repeated.  "We  shall  get  over 
quicker  by  the  Pactolia.  And  it  may  amuse  Zephine 
more." 

I,  who  am  of  the  submerged  tenth,  had  been  dying 
to  cross  by  the  latest  flier.  But  Nick,  who  won't — 
or  who  wouldn't — have  a  yacht  because  it's  duller 
and  less  comfortable,  has  a  passion  for  discovering 
boats  that  nobody  ever  heard  of,  by  which  queer 
people  take  forever  to  get  to  out  of  the  way  ports. 
He  had  therefore  engaged  passage  on  a  line  that 


WHITE  BOMBAZINE  93 

sails  to  Christiania — when  it  doesn't  hit  some  out 
lying  portion  of  Scotland  and  go  down  with  all  on 
board.  It  was  on  the  tip  of  my  conventional  tongue 
to  object  that  we  were  too  late  to  get  anything  by 
the  Cunard  or  any  other  line  than  our  own,  three 
hours  before  the  ship  was  to  sail,  in  the  migrating 
season.  I  have  travelled  with  Nick  before,  however. 
He  is  not  like  me,  credulous  enough  to  believe  steamer 
agents  and  hotel  clerks  and  sleeping  car  men  when 
they  solemnly  swear  they  haven't  a  berth  left.  He 
always  insists,  on  some  dark  theory  that  what  they 
really  prefer  is  not  to  sell  out,  that  they've  got  some 
thing  up  their  sleeve.  And  heaven  has  gifted  him 
with  the  art  of  getting  it  down. 

And  so  it  was  on  this  memorable  occasion.  Zeph- 
ine  and  I  arrived  at  the  foot  of  Fourteenth  Street 
at  three  minutes  to  ten,  purple  and  panting  but  still 
on  speaking  terms.  For  I  had  all  but  abducted  her. 
At  the  decisive  moment  I  had  discovered  in  this 
emancipated  lady  a  scruple.  She  was  calmly  painting 
in  the  orchard,  and  before  she  would  dismiss  the  sun 
rise  models,  or  pack  her  straw  suitcase,  it  became 
necessary  for  me  to  prove  to  her  that  Nick  could 
take  the  entire  Academy  of  Design  to  Norway  every 
summer,  if  he  chose,  and  still  have  enough  left  for 
enamels.  However,  we  were  hustled  by  that  gen 
tleman  aboard  the  Pactolia  just  as  the  gang-plank 
went  up.  Zephine  and  her  straw  suit-case  were  in 
stalled  in  an  ivory-and-gold  royal  suite  which  had  un 
til  the  last  moment  been  reserved  for  a  Cattle  Queen 


94  WHITE  BOMBAZINE 

of  the  South- West,  her  retinue,  and  her  wardrobe 
trunks.  But  the  Cattle  Queen  had  been  so  imprudent 
as  to  indulge  in  an  excess  of  Nesselrode  pudding, 
plus  Creme  d'Yvette,  during  the  fated  hours  that 
Nick  and  I  were  taxying  around  New  York  and 
New  Jersey.  We  contented  ourselves  with  the  cap 
tain's  cabin — Nick  vowing  they  had  another  some 
where  and  would  cough  it  up  as  soon  as  they  started. 
Which,  in  fact,  they  did.  But  as  Nick  wouldn't  let 
me  take  it,  and  I  couldn't  let  Nick,  I  suppose  the 
captain  must  have  slept  there  instead  of  in  the 
steamer  chair  with  which  Zephine's  sympathetic 
imagination  endowed  him. 

I  have  been  lucky  enough  to  cross  the  ocean  as 
often  as  most  people,  and  oftener  than  some;  but  I 
never  made  a  voyage  like  that.  The  howls  with 
which  I  had  greeted  Zephine's  reappearance  on  my 
horizon  were  constantly  upsetting  my  equilibrium. 
While  I  have  enough  in  common  with  her  and  Nick 
to  travel  in  their  company  even  to  this  day,  I  also 
have  too  much  in  common  with  Mrs.  Grundy  not  to 
be  conscious  how  horrified  she  would  be  when  it 
came  out,  through  the  pronunciation  of  names  and 
the  confidences  of  stewardesses,  that  the  lady  of  the 
royal  suite  was  not  the  famous  Cattle  Queen  of  the 
sailing  list  but  a  simple  damsel  of  the  brush,  voyaging 
under  the  protection  of  the  far  from  obscure  Mr. 
Nicholas  Marler.  Such  cases,  of  course,  are  not  ab 
solutely  unknown  on  ocean  greyhounds.  The  beauty 
of  this  case  was  its  perfect  difference  from  anything 


WHITE  BOMBAZINE  95 

good  Mrs.  Grundy  was  capable  of  conceiving.  And 
what  a  picture-play  I  could  make  out  of  it  if  I  had 
the  time! 

Zephine's  clothes  were  naturally  what  interested 
the  more  inquiring  of  our  fellow  passengers.  Yet 
the  glances  which  followed  our  companion  were  not, 
I  noted,  of  disdain.  I  concluded  that  the  royal  suite 
of  the  Pactolia  lent  Zephine's  uniform  a  new  value, 
or  at  any  rate  gave  her  a  freedom  to  wear  what  she 
chose.  For  she  was  good  enough  to  justify  my  ac 
count  of  her.  Having  marked  out  a  sartorial  course 
for  herself,  Zephine  had  never  wasted  time  in  recon 
sideration.  She  duly  produced  the  brown  skirt,  or 
the  pea-green,  or  the  shiny  grey,  as  occasion  de 
manded.  And  each  was  a  pure  delight  to  Nick,  who 
couldn't  get  over  her.  But  he  had  had  the  flair  to 
know,  which  I  hadn't,  that  Zephine  would  not  suffer 
by  comparison  with  the  laces  and  jewels  of  the  sa 
loon.  It  surprised  me,  in  that  company,  to  discover 
what  an  air  she  had.  She  had  been  through  the  mill 
of  the  studios,  of  course,  and  it  would  take  a  good 
deal  to  startle  her.  In  fact  she  sometimes  startled 
more  delicately  nurtured  dames  by  the  things  she 
took  for  granted.  She  was  not  Marguerite,  though. 
She  was  nearer  Juno,  in  her  large,  fair,  easy,  Ger 
manic  way.  Her  braids  were  magnificent  in  the 
light.  As  for  her  throat  and  her  shoulder,  they  were 
incomparable. 

"Really  Nick/'  I  burst  out  one  night,  "you  are  a 
born  connoisseur.  Did  you  know,  or  were  you  mad 


96  WHITE   BOMBAZINE 

—just  seeing  her  like  that,  in  a  window,  for  a  quarter 
of  an  hour,  in  the  moonlight?  " 

Nick's  rejoinder,  which  was  no  reply,  edified  me 
to  the  limit  of  edification. 

"She  says  they  wash,"  he  seriously  observed. 

My  jaw  dropped,  for  only  to  the  wise  is  a  word 
sufficient.  But  then  I  howled  anew. 

"  Of  course  they  wash,  you  cracked  walnut !  That's 
the  killing  part  of  it,  because  she  doesn't  save  any 
thing  by  her  famous  system — she  has  to  keep  so 
many  of  them  going." 

"Why  didn't  you  ever  marry  her?"  continued 
Nick  inconsequently. 

"  I  never  thought  of  it,  for  one  thing.  Neither  did 
she,  for  another.  If  she  had,  she  scarcely  would  have 
failed  to  mention  it.  And  neither  of  us  could  afford 
it,  for  a  third.  Want  any  more  reasons?  I  can 
think  them  up  as  fast  as  you  can  ask  them." 

"Herb,  you're  an  ass,"  commented  Nick  without 
forms.  "But  it's  never  too  late  to  mend.  We'll 
build  a  Norwegian  cottage  in  the  lake  orchard  at 
Island  Pond,  and  you  can  both  paint  apple  trees  and 
live  happily  ever  after." 

"Thanks,"  said  I. 

IV 

It  was  great  fun  showing  Norway  to  Zephine. 
They  went  very  well  together.  Norway  is  the  least 
conventional  of  countries,  where  you  have  the  most 
room  in  which  to  swing  cats.  There  is  nothing  to 


WHITE  BOMBAZINE  97 

look  at  but  Norway  itself,  and  you  aren't  overrun  by 
fellow  bearers  of  the  red  book.  It  doesn't  distress 
me  a  bit  that  the  mountains  are  only  half  as  high  as 
the  Swiss  ones.  They  are  twice  as  effective  when  they 
climb  sheer  out  of  still  green  fiords.  That  is  the  great 
point  about  Norway,  of  course — the  water,  and  those 
fingers  of  the  sea  feeling  for  leagues  among  the 
mountains.  And  the  peasants  are  quite  the  most 
perfect  among  peasants,  if  a  shade  too  honest. 

Zephine  was  entranced  by  everything,  from  our 
first  view  of  the  Christiania  Fiord.  That's  too  much 
like  Island  Pond  to  suit  me.  However,  disdaining 
trains,  boats,  and  the  outcries  of  the  Grand  Hotel,  we 
embarked  in  three  of  those  funny  little  carts,  drawn 
by  three  of  those  fat  friendly  little  ponies,  and  trav 
elled  post — when  we  could — across  to  the  Hardanger 
Fiord.  When  we  could  not,  we  walked.  We  nearly 
froze  to  death,  too,  in  the  high  fjelds,  just  as  the 
Grand  Hotel  had  promised  with  tears  in  its  eyes. 
But  Zephine  and  I  made  no  end  of  sketches,  and 
Nick  got  no  end  of  ideas  for  cottages — with  arches 
of  rough  stone,  and  outside  stairs,  and  loggias  of 
carved  wood,  and  roofs  overgrown  by  turf  and  pan- 
sies  and  bluebells.  We  also  picked  up,  out  of  such 
cottages,  some  old  silver  that  made  our  eyes  pop  out 
of  our  heads.  Altogether  we  had  the  time  of  our 
lives. 

We  hardly  saw  a  tourist  the  whole  way.  Conse 
quently  we  were  surprised  enough  to  drive  into 
Odde  one  evening,  at  the  head  of  the  fiord,  and  be 


98  WHITE  BOMBAZINE 

told  there  was  not  a  room  in  the  hotel.  We  might 
have  expected  it,  for  the  time  was  just  when  people 
flock  to  the  North  Cape.  And  there  was  no  other 
hotel  in  the  place — which  then  consisted  of  two  or 
three  cottages  and  a  pier.  Nick,  however,  took  his 
usual  course  with  the  landlady.  He  blandly  per 
sisted  in  demanding  three  rooms,  until  the  landlady 
produced  them.  Very  good  rooms  they  were,  too — 
or  at  least  mine  was.  It  looked  out  through  festoons 
of  blossoming  honeysuckle  into  a  little  garden,  and 
beside  it  a  river  ran  gaily  into  the  long  avenue  of  the 
fiord,  whose  rocky  walls  were  still  gilded  by  the  late 
summer  light.  As  I  stood  there,  looking  and  listen 
ing  and  sniffing,  an  old  lady  stepped  from  a  wing  of 
the  house  to  make  a  last  touch  of  local  colour  with 
her  wonderful  white  cap,  which  stood  out  frilled 
and  starched  around  her  head  like  an  aureole. 

Still  more  wonderful,  in  his  way,  was  a  man  whose 
acquaintance  we  struck  up  at  dinner.  He  was  an 
Angle,  though  he  might  have  been  a  Saxon.  He  was 
all  pockets,  and  he  travelled  with  everything  he  had 
in  the  world  in  them.  You  never  saw  such  bunches 
in  such  unexpected  places.  Some  of  the  pockets 
were  too  inaccessible  for  him  to  get  at  without  taking 
off  his  clothes;  so  he  had  bags  inside  of  them,  detach 
able  by  means  of  tagged  strings  which  hung  within 
reach.  He  showed  us  some  of  the  things  in  the  bags 
—rocks  and  weeds  and  beasts  of  the  field.  For  the 
man  was  by  way  of  being  a  naturalist.  And  his  back 
was  so  stiff  and  so  flat  that  you  couldn't  conceive 


WHITE  BOMBAZINE  99 

what  was  the  matter  with  him,  until  you  learned 
that  somewhere  in  it  he  kept  a  life-sized  atlas! 

"Nick,"  I  observed  after  a  hilarious  evening,  as 
we  stood  in  my  window  looking  at  the  twilight  of  the 
gods  that  hung  in  the  fiord,  "a  crown  of  righteous 
ness  shall  be  laid  up  for  you  on  high.  You  have 
made  Zephine's  fortune/' 

"0?"  he  grunted  noncommittally. 

"That  Englishman!  I  see  it  all.  They  were 
formed  by  heaven  for  one  another.  It's  a  case  of 
coup  de  foudre,  as  the  alienists  say.  We  shall  have  to 
go  home  without  Zephine." 

"Herb,"  remarked  Nick,  turning  his  back  on  the 
twilight  of  the  gods  and  on  me,  "your  inside  is  as 
baroque  as  that  bird's  outside.  Stop  being  a 
pickled  peacock,  if  you  can,  and  go  to  sleep." 

It  was  not  written,  however,  that  slumber  should 
instantly  visit  our  eyelids.  We  presently  became 
aware  of  a  tremendous  commotion  downstairs.  We 
then  became  aware  of  the  cause  of  the  commotion. 
The  commotion  was  caused,  as  no  one  in  the  house 
could  help  learning  in  the  broken  and  squeaky  Eng 
lish  of  its  fount  and  origin,  by  no  less  a  personage 
than  His  Serene  Highness  the  Prince  Ernst  Paul 
XXIII  of  Waldeck-Hohenkugel,  who  had  reserved, 
as  it  appeared,  the  very  rooms  which  Nick  had  pulled 
out  of  the  landlady's  sleeve,  and  who  clamoured  that 
those  rooms  be  delivered  up  to  him  at  once.  The 
landlady,  good  woman,  had  made  her  bed  and  she 
lay  in  it.  She  refused  at  all  events  to  turn  us  out  of 


100  WHITE  BOMBAZINE 

ours,  arguing  that  no  reservation  held  after  dinner. 
And  she  liberally  offered  his  far  from  serene  Highness 
his  choice  of  bath  rooms,  billiard  rooms,  reading 
rooms,  drawing  rooms,  or  dining  rooms.  His  High 
ness  rejected  them  all,  very  profanely,  and  vowed  he 
would  go  on  to  the  next  post-station.  But  as  there 
happened  to  be  no  road  to  it  except  by  water,  and 
as  no  steamer  would  leave  till  morning,  he  was  forced 
to  accept  what  hospitality  the  landlady  proffered 
him.  So  silence  descended  at  last  upon  the  solitudes 
of  Odde. 


When  I  unwillingly  came  back  to  consciousness  I 
thought  His  Serene  Highness  must  be  getting  under 
way  again.  Then  I  didn't  know  what  to  think.  For 
who  should  be  at  my  chaste  bachelor  bedside,  shak 
ing  me  vigorously  and  shouting  something  about 
Nick,  but  Zephine.  It  didn't  take  me  long,  however, 
to  make  out  a  strong  smell  of  smoke,  a  most  un 
pleasant  glare,  and  horrid  sounds  of  crackling. 
What  happened  next  I  don't  quite  remember.  We 
only  just  had  time  to  run  for  it.  You  have  no  idea 
how  quickly  a  small  wooden  hotel  can  burn  up  at 
two  or  three  o'clock  of  a  cool  June  morning.  There 
turned  out,  thank  heaven,  to  be  no  casualties. 
But  there  were  some  pretty  tight  squeezes.  And 
nobody  saved  much  of  anything. 

As  the  flames  died  down  and  the  survivors  began 
to  regard  each  other  in  the  cold  light  of  day,  we  pre- 


WHITE   BOMBAZINE  101 

sented  one  of  the  most  inspiriting  spectacles  I  ever 
hope  to  admire.  It  made  me  think  of  what  I  have 
heard  described  in  rural  regions  as  a  white  shower. 
The  only  completely  dressed  persons  in  the  party 
were  a  few  sympathetic  citizens  of  Odde,  plus  my 
old  lady  in  the  white  cap  and  the  Englishman  of  the 
pockets.  A  fairly  complete  exhibition  of  the  night- 
wear  of  civilisation  was  there,  hovering  for  warmth 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  smoking  ruins  or  lurking 
for  privacy  in  an  orchard  I  had  not  noticed  the  eve 
ning  before.  There  were  a  few  blankets  and  counter 
panes  in  the  assembly.  Some  had  clutched  odd 
garments  as  they  fled,  and  now  retired  behind  apple 
trees  to  put  them  on.  One  lady  had  had  time  to 
rescue  her  hat — "only  this  and  nothing  more."  A 
squire  of  two  dames  had  clothed  one  of  them  in  his 
dinner-jacket  and  the  other  in  the  waistcoat  apper 
taining  thereto.  He  himself  boasted  a  pair  of  pumps 
and  a  Baedeker.  As  for  me,  I  discovered  myself  to 
be  the  happy  possessor  of  a  pair  of  trousers  and  a 
travelling  rug.  The  latter  in  particular  was  highly 
comforting,  in  the  air  that  drew  down  the  valley  from 
the  white  f  jelds. 

I  likewise  discovered,  however,  that  with  the  rest 
of  my  belongings  I  seemed  to  have  lost  my  com 
panions.  I  had  been  so  diverted,  for  a  time,  that  it 
did  not  occur  to  me  to  be  uneasy  about  them.  And 
I  was  unable  to  imagine  that  two  such  competent 
persons  would  ever  allow  themselves  to  be  roasted 
alive.  I  began,  though,  to  wonder  what  had  become 


102  WfflTE   BOMBAZINE 

of  them — when  in  the  wearer  of  a  splendid  Persian 
dressing  gown  I  suddenly  recognised  Nick.  We  fell, 
so  to  speak,  upon  each  other's  necks. 

"But  where  is  Zephine?"  we  simultaneously  de 
manded.  « 

She  could  scarcely  have  come  to  any  harm,  for 
she  it  was  who  rescued  us  both.  And  we  both  vague 
ly  remembered  having,  in  our  excitement,  seen  her 
afterward.  But  where  on  earth  was  she?  And,  poor 
wretch,  in  what  condition? 

Just  as  we  were  setting  forth  to  find  out,  we  were 
arrested  by  a  loud  and  lamentable  "Ach  Gott!" 
This  outcry  enabled  us,  indirectly,  to  identify  the 
Prince  of  Waldeck-Hohenkugel.  I  had  first  picked 
out  for  that  nobleman  the  most  distinguished  looking 
person  present,  a  blond  and  curly-haired  Apollo  who 
stalked  about  with  an  air  of  proprietorship,  classi 
cally  draped  in  a  sheet.  But  a  squeaky  voice,  issu 
ing  in  response  to  the  "Ach  Gott!"  from  an  unnatur 
ally  distended  suit  of  purple  pyjamas,  rebuked  my 
ingenuousness.  His  Highness,  less  serene  than  ever 
and  now  past  all  power  of  English,  nevertheless  took 
us  at  once  into  his  confidence,  pouring  out  the  history 
of  his  woes  from  the  moment  of  his  arrival  in  Odde, 
and  intimating  that  the  fire  was  a  just  judgment 
from  on  high  upon  an  unrighteous  Wirthin.  As  for 
the  princely  consort,  she  shivered  in  the  lee  of  an  apple 
tree  and  refused  to  be  comforted.  She  had  reason! 

I  looked  at  Nick  and  Nick  looked  at  me.  We  had 
not  much  more  cause  for  happiness  than  those  dis- 


WHITE   BOMBAZINE  103 

illusioned  pleasure  seekers.  Nor  had  we  burned  the 
roof  over  their  heads.  Yet  we  had,  as  it  were, 
snatched  the  pillows  from  under  them.  Moreover 
we  could  not  help  being  conscious  that  our  own  case 
was  less  dire  than  theirs,  and  that  one  of  them  was  a 
lady.  So  Nick,  like  a  hero,  took  off  his  Persian  dress 
ing  gown.  I,  not  to  be  outdone,  divested  myself  of 
my  English  travelling  rug.  As  one  man  we  advanced 
toward  the  princely  apple  tree,  whose  branching 
trunk  intervened  between  us  and  the  shrinking 
Serenity  of  Waldeck-Hohenkugel.  And  each  of  us, 
holding  out  at  arm's  length  his  offering,  invited  Her 
Highness,  in  a  strange  mixture  of  tongues,  to  accept 
the  same. 

Her  Serene  Highness — such  is  the  inconsistency  of 
womankind — eyed  us  through  the  fork  of  her  apple 
tree  with  no  little  confusion.  In  the  candle-light  of 
her  ancestral  halls,  or  even  in  the  sunlight  of  the 
beach  at  Swinemunde,  she  would  have  been  uncon 
scious  of  exposures  more  expansive  than  she  now 
presented.  But  to  parley,  under  a  Norwegian  apple 
tree,  in  a  single  voluminous  garment  of  white,  with 
two  honourably  intentioned  gentlemen  in  pyjamas, 
seemed  to  shake  the  serenity  even  of  a  mediatised 
house.  Yet  that  Her  Highnesses  emotions  were  of  a 
complex  nature  was  patent  from  the  hungry  glances 
which  she  cast,  now  upon  the  English  travelling  rug, 
now  upon  the  Persian  dressing  gown. 

I  know  not  how  long  this  painful  scene  might  have 
been  drawn  out,  had  it  not  been  for  Zephine,  our  lost 


104  WHITE   BOMBAZINE 

\ 

Zephine,  who  suddenly  reappeared  before  us,  trim 
and  miraculous  in  her  famous  £cru  silk  and  her 
famous  brown  skirt,  with  the  Englishman  of  the 
pockets.  Behind  them  marched  the  curly-haired 
Apollo  in  the  sheet,  respectfully  bearing  Zephine's 
straw  suit-case.  It  was  really  too  much. 

"Well  Zephine,"  I  was  just  able  to  remark,  well- 
nigh  overcome  by  my  superhuman  attempts  to  ward 
off  another  attack  of  hysteria,  "this  is  a  scene  to  your 
taste.  Here  is  an  orchard  and  here  are  models — 
more  or  less  as  you  like  them.  I  think  we  would  make 
you  a  stupendous  success  in  the  next  Academy!" 

Zephine,  taking  in  the  situation  at  a  glance,  wasted 
no  time  in  unprofitable  speech.  She  made  a  sign  to 
the  Englishman  of  the  pockets,  who  for  a  wonder 
understood  it.  At  least  he  forthwith  presented  to 
our  little  company  his  atlas  facade.  She  made  an 
other  sign  to  the  gentleman  in  the  sheet,  who  put 
down  her  suit-case,  pulled  his  uncombed  yellow  fore 
lock,  and  stalked  away.  She  then,  under  the  admir 
ing  eyes  of  her  travelling  companions  and  of  Their 
Serene  Highnesses  of  Hohenkugel,  proceeded  to  open 
the  suit-case,  revealing  her  palette,  her  little  folding 
easel,  and  the  rest  of  her  painting  paraphernalia. 

"Gracious!"  I  burst  out.  "Are  you  going  to  do 
it?  Or  are  you  going  to  pain u  clothes  on  us?"  And 
at  the  same  instant  Nick  demanded:  "Who's  your 
friend?" 

Zephine  evidently  considered  the  latter  question 
more  worthy  of  a  reply. 


WHITE   BOMBAZINE  105 

"He's  the  stable  boy  of  the  hotel,"  she  said,  "and 
he's  been  helping  me  telephone.  I've  engaged  rooms 
for  us  all  in  Bergen.  And  the  captain  of  the  steamer 
says  we  can  go  on  board  any  time  we  like.  They're 
making  coffee  for  us  there.  Keep  your  clothes, -for 
I've  saved  mine  and  can  lend  some  to  this  lady." 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  there  they  were,  under  her  paint 
ing  kit!  "But  first  turn  your  backs  and  hold  this 
behind  you,  so  that  we  can  have  a  dressing  room." 
And  she  handed  us  a  green  silk  petticoat. 

It  is  not  for  me  to  record  what  took  place  behind 
that  petticoat.  I  can  only  testify  that  it  was  upon 
a  much  more  serene  Highness  we  were  at  last  per 
mitted  to  turn — attired  in  Zephine's  shiny  grey  skirt 
of  super-state,  with  other  necessary  adjuncts,  and 
abounding  in  the  most  complicated  expressions  of 
gratitude. 

"Kolossal!"  let  out  the  Prince.  "But  I—!"  he 
added  mournfully,  beating  his  brilliant  breast. 

"You  can  wrap  this  around  your  shoulders/'  said 
Zephine  comfortingly,  presenting  him  with  the 
green  silk  petticoat.  "And  you  might  give  him  some 
thing,  Herb,"  she  added.  "You  seem  to  have  more 
than  you  need." 

"Ah!"  archly  exclaimed  Her  Serene  Highness. 
"Then  he  is  the  one!  I  asked  myself  which  of  these 
gentlemen  was  the  gracious  lady's  husband." 

The  violence  of  my  efforts  to  maintain  a  decorum 
suitable  to  the  occasion  must  have  made  me  turn  a 
colour  not  far  from  that  of  the  princely  pyjamas.  I 


106  WHITE   BOMBAZINE 

hardly  dared  meet  the  eyes  of  my  accomplices.  Yet 
when  I  did  so  it  was  to  discover  in  Zephine  not  quite 
the  amused  self-possession  I  expected. 

As  for  Nick,  he  stared  a  little,  he  drew  himself  up 
in  his  Persian  dressing  gown,  he  did  his  best  to  click 
a  pair  of  bare  heels,  he  made  Their  Serene  Highnesses 
of  Waldeck-Hohenkugel  such  a  bow  as  they  knew 
how  to  appreciate,  and  he  said: 

"Pardon,  Highness,  but  you  are  mistaken."  Then 
he  turned,  somewhat  less  ceremoniously,  to  me. 
"Look  here,"  he  threw  out,  in  a  way  that  made  me 
stare  in  turn.  "  I  don't  know  how  much  the  mantua- 
makers  of  Bergen  are  up  to,  but  Zephine'll  have  to 
get  some  new  clothes,  like  the  rest  of  us.  She's  given 
away  most  of  her  own.  And  I  think  it's  about  time 
she  tried  a  new  system.  Anyhow,  the  first  thing 
she's  going  to  have  is  one  non-reversible  garment  of 
white  bombazine,  garnished  with  mosquito  netting 
and  whatever  in  the  flora  of  the  country  may  answer 
to  orange  blossoms.  Do  you  get  me?" 
}  I  signified,  not  without  a  grin  of  surprise,  that  I 
got  him. 

"I  suppose  you  imagine  that  I  owe  you  some 
thing,"  proceeded  Nick,  "and  so  I  won't  ask  you  to 
listen  to  any  remarks  on  the  subject  of  a  habit  you 
have  latterly  developed  of  snickering  at  inopportune 
moments.  I  will  ask  you,  though,  if  you  don't  mind, 
to  go  to  Trondhjem  and  look  up  those  enamels.  I'm 
afraid  Bode  may  be  after  them.  In  the  meantime 
I  think  Zephine  and  I  will  beat  it  to  the  North  Cape. 


WHITE   BOMBAZINE  107 

I  shouldn't  wonder  if  we  ran  around  to  Archangel 
and  Nova  Zembla  too.  I'm  going  to  telegraph  to 
England  for  a  yacht.  So  you  can  take  your  time. 
But  you  must  be  ready  for  us  to  pick  you  up  on  our 
way  back." 

At  first,  you  know,  I  thought  they  had  cooked  the 
thing  up  between  them.  But  Nick's  air — rather  of  a 
horse  with  the  bit  in  his  teeth — and  Zephine's  un 
mistakable  pinkness,  and  a  queer  look  they  at  last  ex 
changed,  when  Nick  finished  his  speech  and  offered 
Zephine  his  arm,  told  me  that  not  until  that  mo 
ment,  when  two  Serene  Highnesses,  a  baroque  Eng 
lishman,  and  I,  were  staring  at  them,  had  those 
extraordinary  young  persons  come  to  the  point  of 
undertaking  the  delicate  negotiations  vulgarly  known 
as  getting  engaged.  Zephine,  at  any  rate,  did  not 
refuse  Nick's  offered  arm.  And  with  a  somewhat 
less  magnificent  bow  they  strolled  away,  leaving 
me  to  deal  with  the  situation  as  best  I  might. 

I  did  take  my  time.  I  bagged  the  enamels,  and 
then  I  went  on  a  two  months'  walking  tour  with  the 
Englishman  of  the  pockets. 


UNTO   THE   DAY 


MARTIN  leaned  across  the  dusty  parapet, 
ridden  by  that  singular  depression  which  one 
may  know  in  strange  cities.  The  fervour 
of  the  August  sun,  giving  an  intolerable  vividness  of 
outline  and  detail  to  the  curving  perspective,  did  not 
serve  to  cozen  his  mood.  The  ragged  gully  of  the 
Arno,  sunken  between  the  ordered  stone  embank 
ments,  the  wider  curve  of  parallel  fagades  with  their 
indefinable  touch  of  dignity  and  age,  the  dainty  mini 
ature  of  Santa  Maria  della  Spina,  the  crenelated  pile 
of  the  old  citadel  behind  the  Ponte  a  Mare,  gave  him 
the  sense  of  something  known  and  wearied  of  long 
ago.  He  looked  down  as  from  an  infinite  height  upon 
a  group  of  boys  shouting  below.  They  were  splash 
ing  in  a  shallow  pool  or  chasing  each  other  naked  on 
the  sands,  with  an  abandon  enviable  alike  for  its  dis 
regard  of  nature  and  of  man.  Beyond,  where  a 
rivulet  of  the  shrunken  stream  made  some  pretence 
of  motion,  a  row  of  women  knelt  above  their  wash 
boards.  They  beat  their  hapless  linen  with  a  vehe 
mence  which  at  such  a  temperature  would  have  been 
preternatural  had  their  chatter  not  made  it  mirac 
ulous.  The  theatrical  vivacity  of  the  people,  their 

108 


UNTO   THE   DAY  109 

unaccustomed  faces,  their  foreign  speech,  weighed 
again  on  Martin's  humour.  He  rose  impatiently  and 
turned  his  back  to  the  river. 

The  quay  was  hardly  more  engaging  in  the  pitiless 
morning  glare.  White  pavement  and  stucco  facades 
danced  together  in  the  quivering  silence.  Scarcely 
a  living  creature  was  visible.  A  man  passed  with  a 
panier-laden  donkey,  uttering  a  harsh  unintelligible 
cry.  The  straw  hat  on  the  beast's  head,  through 
which  two  long  ears  protruded  comically,  provided 
a  fleeting  object  of  interest.  In  the  distance  a  woman 
approached.  She  was  dressed  in  white,  and  Martin 
felt  a  personal  resentment  against  her  for  not  afford 
ing  some  contrast  to  the  intolerable  monotony  of 
light.  Had  she  come  forth  in  sky-blue  or  bottle- 
green,  she  would  have  been  a  public  benefactress, 
worthy  the  freedom  of  the  city. 

Wondering  miserably  what  he  should  do  with  him 
self,  Martin  cast  an  indifferent  glance  at  the  building 
in  front  of  him.  It  was  one  of  the  high  dark-browed 
Tuscan  palazzi,  broad  -eaved  and  strong-barred  like 
the  great  houses  of  Florence.  The  entrance  was  open, 
giving  a  glimpse  of  a  shady  courtyard  within.  Above 
the  massive  archway  was  a  device  that  attracted 
the  young  man's  attention.  A  fragment  of  chain 
hung  there,  from  a  bolt  projecting  above  the  key 
stone;  and  between  the  chain  and  a  high  stone 
escutcheon  ran  the  legend,  in  letters  of  tarnished 
brass  let  into  the  weathered  marble: 
ALLA  GIORNATA 


110  UNTO   THE   DAY 

Martin's  interest  was  caught.  The  three  links  of 
chain,  the  heraldic  lion,  the  enigmatic  inscription — 
what  did  they  signify?  He  studied  the  open  gate, 
the  marble  benches  beside  it,  the  forbidding  windows, 
the  iron  torch-sconces,  as  if  for  a  clue.  As  he  did  so 
the  sound  of  steps  intruded  lightly  upon  his  survey. 
Glancing  about  he  remarked  the  offensive  person  in 
white.  He  noted,  furthermore,  that  her  offence  ex 
tended  to  and  included  her  shoes,  but  not  her  hair — 
which  was  dark;  that  she  twirled  a  white  parasol  over 
her  shoulder  in  the  most  obvious  and  irritating  satis 
faction;  and  that  her  eyes  were  upon  him,  with  an 
expression  which  closely  resembled  amusement.  At 
his  look  she  turned  them  to  the  palace  gate. 

A  moment  later  his  resumed  inspection  of  the 
writing  in  the  stone  was  interrupted  by  the  transit 
of  the  parasol.  Something  of  the  butterfly  assurance 
with  which  that  cloud  of  lace  and  chiffon  blotted  out 
the  dusty  inscription  prompted  Martin  to  wonder 
whether  it  had  a  secret  which  was  denied  himself. 
From  a  sudden  whimsical  impulse  he  demanded 
aloud : 

"What  does  it  mean?" 

To  his  intense  astonishment  and  no  small  dismay 
the  parasol  slowly  turned,  revealing  a  pair  of  eyes 
which  no  longer  dissembled  amusement.  Yet  it  was 
not  the  parasol  nor  the  eyes,  but  the  owner  of  them 
who  answered: 

"It  means  everything.  It  means  the  whole  of 
life." 


UNTO  THE  DAY  111 

Then  the  parasol  resumed  its  rotatory  orbit  up  the 
Lungarno  Regio. 

Martin  stared  after  it,  not  knowing  whether  to  be 
more  astounded  at  his  own  temerity  or  at  the  sound 
of  his  native  tongue.  But  everything  in  him  cried 
out  against  the  solitude  of  that  sun-smitten  quay; 
and  he  called,  desperately: 

"  Thank  you,  but  I  wish  you  would  be  a  little  more 
explicit — considering  that  I  have  been  after  that 
formula  a  good  many  years,  and  don't  happen  to 
have  my  phrase-book  about  me." 

The  parasol  hesitated,  came  gradually  to  a  stand 
still,  and  once  more  performed  an  axial  revolution  of 
forty-five  degrees.  This  time — had  Martin  not  been 
too  eager  to  perceive  it — the  amusement  in  the  eyes 
was  mingled  with  curiosity: 

"  They  don't  put  it  in  phrase-books.  People  have 
to  translate  it  for  themselves." 

"But  I  don't  know  Italian!"  protested  Martin, 
hastily,  taking  off  his  hat:  "Giornata — Is  it  like 
journke?  The  day?  That  which  happens  between 
dark  and  dark?" 

The  lady  still  faced  the  river,  looking  back  at  him 
over  her  shoulder: 

"Yes." 

"And  the  chain ! "  pursued  Martin :  "  Is  it  a  whole 
chain  or  a  broken  one?" 

"That  depends!" 

"'To  the  day'— and  a  chain!  Why  is  that  the 
whole  of  life?" 


112  UNTO  THE  DAY 

"Why  is  it  not  the  whole  of  life?" 

"Because  it's  only  a  part.  And  it's  not  the  best 
part:  the  part  that  gets  things  done,  the  part  that 
one  likes  to  remember." 

The  parasol  eddied  lightly  in  the  scorching  sun: 

"You  have  been  reading  phrase-books  too  much. 
That  is  exactly  what  it  is:  the  best  part,  the  part 
that  gets  things  done — if  things  ever  are  done — the 
only  part  that  one  likes  to  remember.  The  rest  is 
merely  padding." 

"But  that  chops  things  up  so!"  objected  Martin, 
polemically:  "And  it  makes  too  much  of  the  chain." 

"0!  I  beg  your  pardon,"  responded  the  lady 
bowing  slightly:  "I  thought  it  was  information  you 
wanted."  She  turned  a  little  toward  the  Ponte  di 
Mezzo. 

"I  suppose  you  are  right,"  admitted  Martin  pre 
cipitately,  "in  a  way.  But  would  you  really  have 
people  live  just  for  the  day?"  As  he  stood  there 
with  his  back  against  the  baking  stone  of  the  parapet, 
his  head  uncovered  to  the  sun,  he  became  aware  that 
the  point  of  his  interest  had  somehow  shifted  from 
the  writing  above  the  gate  to  its  interpreter  with  the 
parasol.  She  was  not  so  young,  he  observed,  but 
neither — on  the  other  hand — was  she  so  old.  He 
felt  that  he  would  gladly  suffer  a  sunstroke  if  he  could 
succeed  in  prolonging  the  interpretation. 

The  lady  laughed  outright: 

"They  do!  I'm  not  responsible  for  it!  But  what 
have  you  against  me?  An  inoffensive  person  walks 


UNTO  THE  DAY  113 

down  the  street,  at  peace  with  all  the  world,  when 
she  is  suddenly  waylaid  by  a  defiant  young  man 
whom  she  has  never  seen  and  is  forced  into  the  heat 
of  argument — as  if  the  sun  were  not  bad  enough 
already!" 

Martin  laughed  too,  albeit  not  so  lightly,  for  he 
perceived  that  the  interpretation  was  at  an  end : 

"I  beg  pardon  for  waylaying  you.  I  can  only 
offer  you  my  word  that  it  is  not  my  habit  to  go  about 
distressing  and  destroying  all  ladies,  like  Sir  Breuse 
Saunce  Pitie.  I  suppose  I  fancied  myself  the  sole 
person  cognizant  of  the  English  language  in  this 
town,  which  I  have  never  seen  and  which  I  already 
hate." 

To  his  relief  the  lady  did  not  take  instant  depar 
ture,  but  laughed  again: 

"  If  it  comes  to  apologies  we  shall  be  quits.  I  can 
only  beg  you  to  believe  that  it  is  not  my  habit  to 
stop  and  chaffer  with  strange  gentlemen.  I  suppose 
it  was  the  novelty  of  your  attack  that  undid  me.  If 
you  had  begun  with  so  harmless  a  remark  as  'Good 
morning'  I  would  have  known  you  at  once  for  an 
objectionable  character;  but  since  you  immediately 
engaged  me  in  the  ultimate  problems  of  existence 
you  surprised  me  out  of  my  conventions!" 

"I  will  offer  you  any  reparation  in  my  power — 
even  to  the  point  of  a  card ! "  eagerly  rejoined  Martin, 
who  detected  signs  of  unrest  in  the  parasol. 

"  I  will  not  exact  that  proof  of  you,"  said  the  lady: 
"Names  are  necessary  in  complex  societies  only — of 


114  UNTO   THE  DAY 

three  or  more."  Although  she  said  it  lightly,  she 
said  it  in  a  way  that  made  Martin  put  back  his  card- 
case  and  hastily  button  his  coat.  "But  you  mustn't 
hate  Pisa/'  she  went  on:  " There  are  charming  river 
curves  in  it,  and  narrow  streets  with  overhanging 
eaves.  And,  if  you  don't  mind  my  mentioning  things 
which  are  so  ordinary  as  to  be  starred  by  Baedeker, 
I  know  a  cloister  in  a  quiet  corner  of  the  city  wall 
where  the  Middle  Ages  are  buried.  Or  I  could  even 
show  you  the  kingdoms  of  the  world  and  the  glory 
of  them  from  the  top  of  a  tower." 

"I  wish  you  would!"  burst  out  Martin,  before  he 
knew  what  he  was  about.  The  next  instant,  remem 
bering  the  card-case,  he  damned  himself. 

But  after  looking  across  her  shoulder  at  him  for  a 
moment  she  gave  her  parasol  a  jerk  of  decision. 

"I  will!"  she  smiled,  facing  him  at  last:  "Now 
that  I  have  hopelessly  compromised  myself  it  is  too 
late  to  assume  a  forgotten  dignity  and  sweep  away 
with  an  outraged  stare!  Why  should  I  not  practise 
what  I  preach?  Alia  giornata!  I  was  just  wondering 
what  to  do  with  this  long  hot  morning.  And  do  put 
your  hat  on.  I  am  already  smouldering,  even  under 
my  parasol." 

II 

They  crossed  the  quay  to  a  dark  little  alley  that 
skirted  the  flank  of  his  palace,  and  Martin  could 
scarcely  realise  how  it  was  that  his  mood  had  so 
completely  changed. 


UNTO   THE   DAY  115 

"Be  warned  in  time! "  he  said :  " It  is  not  too  late 
to  repent.  I  don't  want  to  lure  you  away  under  false 
pretences.  I'm  just  a  common  tripper  and  I  have  a 
Baedeker  in  my  pocket." 

"I  knew  it!"  she  rejoined:  "That  is  why  I  am 
throwing  my  reputation  to  the  winds.  And  I  hope 
you  notice,  in  the  meantime,  that  we  are  entering  the 
Way  of  Wisdom.  See?"  she  pointed  to  the  name  of 
the  street — Via  della  Sapienza — cut  in  a  high  stone. 
"But  I  always  wanted  to  know  what  trippers  did. 
Do  tell  me!"  She  put  down  her  parasol  as  they  en 
tered  the  cool  of  the  shadow.  Martin  was  glad,  for 
it  enabled  him  to  see  her  better. 

"Must  I  be  butchered  to  make  a  Pisan  holiday?" 
he  asked.  "Know  then  that  I,  who  now  tread  the 
Way  of  Wisdom,  started  out  on  a  poetical  pilgrimage. 
I  have  been  walking — figuratively,  and  a  trifle  ana- 
chronously — in  the  footsteps  of  Shelley.  Rome  knows 
me;  also  Venice,  Ravenna,  and  the  Euganean  Hills. 
I  have  been  to  Spezia.  I  have  pensively  treadled 
bicycles  up  and  down  behind  every  villa  at  San 
Terenzo,  wondering  which  was  the  one.  I  have 
sailed  boats  on  the  Seno  di  Lerici.  I  have  gone 
swimming  at  Viareggio.  I  have  haunted  the 
harbour  of  Leghorn.  And  early  this  morning  I 
wheeled  up  here.  I  am  now  prepared  to  make  a 
brief  but  comprehensive  survey  of  the  city  and  en 
virons — particularly  of  the  pineta  at  Bocca  d'Arno. 
There  I  shall  compose  a  sonnet,  sitting  with  my 
back  against  a  sea-viewing  pine,  and  then  I  shall 


116  UNTO   THE  DAY 

go  home.     The  anatomy  of  tripping  is  laid  bare 
before  you!" 

The  lady  laughed. 

"I  wish  I  could  boast  as  good  a  reason  for  being 
here!  It  is  the  dentist  that  brings  me."  Martin 
noticed  that  she  did  not  say  from  where.  "But  I 
am  afraid  I  have  thrown  away  my  reputation  for 
nothing.  You  have  not  yet  explained  the  hordes 
that  pour  through  this  country  with  their  red 
books  in  their  hands,  as  regular  as  the  birds  in  their 
seasons.  Why  do  they  do  it,  do  you  suppose?  They 
make  no  poetical  pilgrimages.  Have  they  no  lives 
of  their  own  to  live?  " 

"You  are  rather  hard  on  us!"  laughed  Martin. 
They  turned  out  of  their  alley,  a  mere  crack  between 
the  houses  with  a  strip  of  blue  hung  high  above,  into 
a  cross  street  that  led  to  a  small  square.  "It  is  very 
simple.  No  American  woman  is  quite  happy  until 
she  has  a  motor  car  and  has  been  to  Europe.  And 
then  there  is  Culture,  with  a  large  C,  which  is  making 
terrific  inroads  among  us.  And  there  is — 'Kennst  Du 
das  Land'-  -  You  know?  Not  many  of  us  are  so  lucky 
as  to  stay,  like  you  in  the  different  colonies."  He 
looked  at  her  to  see  how  his  guess  would  catch. 

"I  remember  I  had  ideas  about  them  once"  she 
said,  in  a  tone  that  made  Martin  wonder  "But  I 
know  them  too  well  now. " 

"What  about  them?" 

"They  have  most  of  the  characteristics  of  Botany 
Bay  at  its  flourishing  period.  There  are  a  few  work- 


UNTO  THE  DAY  117 

ers  and  loafers;  but  most  of  us  are  hiders,  sitting  more 
or  less  modestly  under  smaller  or  larger  clouds! 
Don't  ask  me  which  I  am!"  she  laughed,  as  Martin 
looked  at  her.  "I  used  to  think  that  disreputable 
people  would  be  more  interesting  than  reputable 
ones/'  she  went  on,  "because  they  had  at  least  the 
courage  of  their  convictions.  But  I  have  discovered 
to  my  sorrow  that  they  can  be  just  as  dull  as  any 
body.  Of  course  there  are  glittering  exceptions. 
But  I  have  even  met  people  of  the  most  unquestion 
able  virtue  who  were  really  worth  knowing!  I  have 
come  to  the  sad  conclusion  that  existing  classifica 
tions  do  not  classify." 

Martin  laughed  with  her  as  they  went  up  the 
wider  street  into  which  their  crossway  had  led  them. 
But  the  interest  which  her  very  first  word  had 
aroused  grew  stronger  in  him  than  amusement.  This 
dainty  white  person  whom  he  had  never  seen  before 
to-day — who  was  she?  Where  had  she  been,  what 
had  she  done,  yesterday,  all  the  other  days  that 
went  before  their  chance  meeting  by  the  Arno? 
There  was  something  in  the  lightness  of  her  words, 
in  the  simplicity  with  which  she  had  accompanied 
him,  that  was  not  of  common  days. 

The  street  opened  out  in  front  of  them  into  a  space 
of  sun  that  widened  as  they  advanced,  disclosing  the 
famous  piazza  with  its  group  of  white  buildings  un 
der  the  city  wall. 

"  Isn't  it  nice?  "  she  asked.  "  They  always  remind 
me  of  a  little  convoy  of  ships  becalmed — these  lonely 


118  UNTO  THE  DAY 

white  things  with  their  broad  shadows  in  the  sun 
light.  But  don't  look  at  that  tower.  I  detest  it  for 
having  tried  in  such  a  stupid  way  to  be  different 
from  all  the  towers  in  the  world.  Nothing  is  nice 
about  it  but  the  view  from  the  top.  Which  it  is  too 
hot  to  get  at  now.  Let's  go  over  to  the  Campo  Santo 
and  look  at  the  shadows  of  the  tracery  on  the  pave 
ment.  It  is  always  cool  and  quaint  there." 

She  raised  her  parasol  and  led  obliquely  across  the 
great  square,  between  the  cathedral  and  the  bap 
tistery,  to  a  canopied  door  in  a  low  wall.  Martin 
stared  curiously  about  him  as  they  went.  The  burnt 
grass  between  the  hot  flagstones  gave  a  strange  im 
pression  of  the  solitude  of  the  place,  of  its  evident 
separation  from  the  life  of  the  city,  which  contrasted 
singularly  with  the  splendours  setting  it  apart  among 
the  shrines  of  the  world.  They  rang  at  the  canopied 
door  and  were  admitted.  It  was  like  stepping  into 
another  century — so  calm,  so  cool,  so  of  itself  was 
that  burial  place  of  another  age.  Of  a  different 
quality  was  the  very  sunshine  which  gilded  the  green 
of  the  quadrangle  and  retraced  on  the  pavement  of 
the  cloister  the  outlines  of  the  marble  lace-work 
between  the  pillars.  Martin  was  without  words  as 
they  slowly  made  the  round  of  the  ambulatory,  fol 
lowing  and  smiling  together  over  the  delightful 
frescoes.  It  all  seemed  to  him  a  piece  of  the  magic 
of  this  woman  who  had  so  unexpectedly  released  him 
from  the  intolerable  mood  of  the  morning. 

Suddenly,   among  the  sarcophagi,  fragments  of 


UNTO  THE  DAY  119 

sculpture,  and  commemorative  marbles  which  strew 
that  painted  cloister,  a  tablet  caught  his  eye.  It 
was  in  old  French,  with  a  flavour  of  Italian,  and 
together  they  picked  out  the  quaint  lettering: 

DOM 

Cy  gist  Achilles  Gvibert  de  Chevigny,  fils  de 

Pierre  Gvibert,  Escvier,  Sievr  de  Chevigny,  Conseiller, 

Secretair  dv  Roy,  Maison,  Covronne  deFrance 

et  de  Dame  Clavde  Gviet  Gallard  dela 

Paroisse  Sainct  Andre  dela  ville  de  Paris,  le  qvel 

Achille  av  sortir  del'  Accademie,  et  des 

movsquetaires  dv  Roy,  vovlovst  faire  le  voiage 

DItalie  et  sen  retovrnant  deRome  en  France,  estant 

tombe  malade  Alivovrne,  povr  changer  dair,  se  fit 

porter  en  cette  ville  de  Pise,  ov,  apres  avoir  recev  les 

saincts  sacremens  ordonnez  par  nostre  mere  saincte 

Eglise,  il  movrvt,  et  fvst  enterre  en  ce  saint  liev,  le 

XXI:  iovr  Daovst  MDCLXXIV:  agee  de  XXVI:  ans. 

Priez  Diev  povr  le  salvt  de  son  ame. 

Fait  par  le  tres  cher  amy  dela  nation,  et 

Maison  de  France,  Labbe  Gaetani  archidiacre  de  cediocese. 

For  a  moment  they  were  silent.  In  the  stillness 
of  that  sequestered  place  the  forgotten  story  seemed 
to  live  again.  Then  Martin  put  his  finger  to  the 
stone: 

"See!"  he  exclaimed.  "It  was  the  twenty-first 
of  August.  And  to-day  is  the  twenty-first!" 

His  companion  turned  her  eyes  to  his,  with  a 
curious  smile. 

"And  I  came  to  show  you!  If  I  had  any  qualms 
about  les  convenances  I  have  none  now." 


120  UNTO   THE   DAY 

They  were  silent  again,  looking  at  each  other  and 
at  the  white  tablet.  There  was  something  in  the 
little  coincidence  which  seemed  to  Martin  strangely 
significant. 

"  'Lequel  Achille  voulutfaire  le  voyage  d' Italic.'  How 
near  it  makes  him  seem,  poor  boy!  I  did  not  think 
of  there  being  trippers  then,"  he  said  with  a  smile. 
"There  was  no  Shelley;  not  even  a  Goethe  and  a 
Mignon — two  hundred  and  thirty-three  years  ago!" 

She  made  no  reply  at  first.    Then  she  said,  softly: 

"I  wonder  how  it  was  with  Dame  Claude.  There 
were  other  things  that  lacked  then,  beside  your  poets. 
It  must  have  taken  time  for  the  Abb£  Gaetani's  letter 
to  get  to  Paris." 

"However  it  was  then,  it  happily  makes  no  dif 
ference  now,"  returned  Martin.  A  rising  elation 
filled  him — out  of  the  utter  unexpectedness  of  this 
meeting,  out  of  its  picturesqueness,  out  of  the 
infinity  of  possibilities  which  it  might  promise.  He 
was  accordingly  amazed  at  the  vehemence  with 
which  his  companion  turned  upon  him. 

"Why  do  you  say  that?"  she  exclaimed.  "You 
who  brought  me  here,  and  on  this  day!  Have  you 
forgotten  the  gateway  by  the  river?  Now  is  not  the 
time.  The  time  was  when  the  horseman  clattered 
up  the  cobble-stones  of  St.  Andr£  and  into  the  court 
yard  of  the  Hotel  de  Chevigny;  when  Dame  Claude 
seized  the  packet  from  the  page  at  the  door  and  ran 
with  it  to  the  secretaire  du  roi;  when  he  broke  the 
seal,  read  the  first  lines  of  the  Abb£  Gaetani,  went 


UNTO  THE   DAY  121 

white  to  the  lips,  looked  at  Dame  Claude,  and  turned 
away.  It  was  then  that  it  made  a  difference.  It 
was  then  that  nothing  else  made  a  difference.  Things 
come,  and  then  other  things  come.  Time  is  only  a 
chain  to  hold  us  to  them — or  away  from  them.  It 
is  mere  chance  whether  it  breaks  all  at  once  or  by 
degrees.  .  .  " 

Martin  watched  her  keenly  as  she  spoke,  white  in 
the  shadow  of  the  cloister,  her  hair  dark  against  the 
wan  frescoes.  There  was  a  curious  contrast  between 
the  vivid  modern  figure  and  those  faded  images  of  a 
life  so  dim  and  far  away.  And  recalling  the  palace 
gate  he  wondered  what  there  might  be  of  consistency 
or  inconsistency  between  what  she  said  so  lightly 
then  and  what  she  said  so  intensely  now.  And  why? 
Where  had  she  been,  what  had  she  done,  yesterday, 
all  the  other  days  that  went  before  their  chance  meet 
ing  by  the  Arno? 

She  stopped,  as  if  reading  in  his  eyes.  She  touched 
the  white  stone  softly. 

"Good-bye,  poor  Achille,"  she  said — "you  and 
your  twenty-six  years." 

She  did  not  speak  again  as  they  passed  on.  But 
at  one  of  the  openings  into  the  green  quadrangle  a 
sudden  impulse  seized  her.  She  stepped  down  into 
the  grass  and  picked  some  crimson-tipped  daisies 
growing  there.  Then  she  went  back  and  laid  them 
on  top  of  the  tablet,  adding: 

"That  is  for  Dame  Claude,  who  was  not  here  all 
those  years  ago  to-day." 


122  UNTO  THE  DAY 


ill 

They  sat  where  they  could  follow  the  shining  river 
coils  that  wound  down  out  of  the  hills,  dived  under 
the  red  of  the  city  roofs,  and  wound  on  again  into 
the  iridescent  plain.  Through  the  haze  of  the  Ma- 
remma  the  glint  of  the  sea  at  last  began  to  burn,  and 
out  of  the  north  issued  ghostly  the  apparition  of  the 
Carrara  mountains.  The  day  had  somehow  flamed 
away,  there  in  that  leaning  gallery  in  the  corner  of 
the  city  wall,  where  the  storied  marbles  stood  alone 
with  their  shadows — a  little  fleet  of  ships  becalmed 
in  a  quiet  haven  of  the  world. 

"  I  am  like  the  wicked  in  Scripture,"  she  said.  "  I 
love  groves  and  high  places." 

"I  would  say  rather  that  you  were  like  the  Em 
press  Elisabeth,"  rejoined  Martin.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  they  had  always  been  there,  that  they 
would  always  remain  there — he  and  this  woman 
whose  very  name  he  did  not  know. 

"Why  am  I  like  the  Empress  Elisabeth?"  she 
asked. 

"Haven't  you  read  Christomanos?" 

"What  is  that?" 

"Your  ignorance  is  the  first  gratification  my  vanity 
has  had  to-day!"  laughed  Martin.  "Christomanos 
is  the  hero  of  a  modern  fairy  story — which  is 
all  the  prettier  for  being  true.  It  is  a  kind  of 
inverted  'Cinderella/  He  was  a  little  Greek  student 
in  the  university  of  Vienna,  who  lived  in  a  garret 


UNTO  THE  DAY  123 

in  an  alley.  You  know  the  kind?  With  stair  ga 
bles,  and  bread  shops,  and  clothes  lines?  Imagine 
a  Greek  there!  And  one  day  a  court  carriage 
rumbled  up,  just  as  if  it  had  suddenly  rolled  out 
of  a  pumpkin,  and  carried  him  off  to  talk  Greek  to 
the  empress.  The  carriage  came  every  morning  after 
that;  and  he  would  spend  the  day  in  the  imperial 
park  at  Lainz,  and  go  back  at  night  to  his  stair  gable. 
And  at  last  he  went  to  live  in  the  palace  altogether, 
and  talked  to  the  empress  while  she  had  her  hair 
combed,  and  walked  leagues  with  her,  and  went  to 
Schonbrunn  and  Miramar  and  Corfu.  Of  course  the 
ladies-in-waiting  were  scandalised,  but  she  was  used 
to  that — and  he  was  something  of  a  poet." 

"And  after  she  died  he  wrote  a  book  about  it. 
Which  shows  how  true  a  poet  he  was!" 

"Wait  till  you  read  him.  The  thing  was  that 
people  said  such  things  about  her,  and  he  knew  bet 
ter;  and  it  hurt  him.  Of  course  he  couldn't  help 
seeing  the  picturesqueness  of  it  all,  but  he  isn't 
nasty  about  it.  Most  of  it  is  what  she  said  about 
things." 

"What  did  she  say  about  things?" 

Martin  watched  the  profile  beside  him,  out-lined 
against  the  marble  of  the  tower  and  touched  faintly 
by  the  glow  of  the  westering  sun. 

"Well,  one  thing  was  a  good  deal  like  what  you 
just  told  me  about  high  places.  Christomanos  says 
that  she  always  liked  hills  because  there  are  so 
few  untrampled  places  in  the  world." 


124  UNTO  THE  DAY 

"  It  was  rather  imperial  of  her  to  want  to  trample 
them  herself,  then.  And  your  Christomanos  sounds 
as  if  he  lacked  humour." 

"I  fancy  he  did,"  uttered  Martin. 

Something  in  his  tone  made  his  companion  look  at 
him. 

"  Don't  be  teased,"  she  said.  "  Tell  me  more  about 
them.  How  did  it  end?  Did  he  run  away,  or  did  she 
send  him  away,  or  what?  " 

"0  dear,  no!  The  day  of  his  going  was  set  before 
he  came." 

"0!  I  begin  to  approve  of  your  empress."  She 
was  silent  a  moment,  looking  out  toward  the  sea. 
"How  was  it,  do  you  suppose?" 

"Why,  she  was  ages  older  and  wiser  and  every 
thing  else.  It  was  only  that  she  was  terribly  lonely 
and  bored,  and  he  could  do  things  that  she  couldn't 
ask  of  a  maid  of  honour,  and  was  likewise  incline  a 
comprendre." 

"  0 !    And  what  about  him?  " 

"He  was  so  dazed  that  I  don't  suppose  you  can 
tell  anything  about  him.  He  must  have  been  dazed 
all  the  time — by  the  enormousness  of  the  distance 
between  them,  by  her  tragic  history,  by  her  personal 
ity,  her  eyes,  her  hair,  everything  about  her.  And 
to  drop  out  of  it  all — to  go  back  to  being  a  simple 
Greek  student,  and  live  in  a  stair  gable,  and  be  de 
spised  by  bakers  and  washerwomen  when  he  had  been 
the  familiar  friend  of  their  empress,  must  have  been 
hard." 


UNTO   THE   DAY  125 

"Well,  he  had  his  moment,"  she  mused.     "Did 
anyone  ever  have  more?  " 
"Likewise,"  chanted  Martin: 

"  'Apres  le  plaisir  vient  la  peine; 
Aprks  la  peine,  le  bonheur! ' " 

"But  it's  a  high  price/'  she  commented,  simply. 

"  It's  worth  it,"  asserted  Martin. 

"You  have  not  sat  enough  upon  towers!"  She 
looked  at  him  a  moment,  with  a  half  smile,  and  then 
across  the  plain  again.  "No;  it's  not  because  this 
place  is  untrampled  that  I  like  to  come  here.  But 
you  can  see  over  everybody's  walls.  You  get  some 
kind  of  proportion.  And  I  like  to  think  of  all  the 
people — under  these  roofs,  in  that  haze.  Common 
life  is  what  pleases  me,  and  common  people — simple 
people.  Our  ideas  for  ourselves  are  so  single.  They 
shut  out  so  much  that  might  be,  and  they  hardly 
ever  come  out  right.  Our  lives  are  generally  made 
up  of  two  or  three  real  days,  with  years  of  waiting 
and  remembering  between.  Common  lives  and  com 
mon  things  are  better,  just  as  they  happen,  from 
day  to  day." 

Martin  studied  her,  half  wondering  what  lay  be 
hind  her  words  and  half  taken  by  the  charm  of  her 
slow  inflection.  She  turned  under  his  eyes;  and  he 
asked  at  random: 

"Do  you  come  here  often,  for  the  tower?" 

"Not  very.  I  have  one  of  my  own,  near  Naples, 
where  I  have  sat  much  and  seen  many  things." 


126  UNTO  THE  DAY 

"Think  of  having  a  tower  near  Naples!  And  I 
have  to  sail  in  a  month!" 

"Would  you  like  to  exchange?"  she  asked,  smiling. 

"Wouldn't  I!" 

"Very  well,  we  will!"  she  said,  playfully.  "I  will 
throw  in  a  view  of  the  city  and  the  bay,  with  a  bit 
of  Pozzuoli,  and  a  big  garden,  and  all  the  statues  you 
can  talk  to,  and  an  olive  orchard  that  runs  down  hill 
to  the  sea,  and  a  frog  pond.  .  .  " 

"There  are  worse  things!"  interrupted  Martin. 

"What?"  she  demanded,  eyeing  him  curiously. 

"New  England!"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  laugh. 

"  I  suppose  you  will  think  so,"  she  rejoined  grave 
ly,  "until  you  have  sat  by  yourself  in  a  tower  and 
listened  to  frogs  in  a  pond.  For  that  matter,  though, 
the  frogs  are  what  I  like  best."  She  looked  out  again 
across  the  Maremma.  The  sea  began  to  widen  in 
the  sunset,  toward  which  the  Arno  ran  in  links  of 
brightening  fire.  "No,"  she  said  at  last.  "It  is  not 
for  us." 

"What?  "he  asked. 

"This!"  she  answered,  waving  her  hand  against 
the  golden  space  before  them.  "We  are  of  the  North. 
We  belong  to  mist  and  pallor  and  dreams.  Here  they 
have  no  dream.  What  is  there  left  for  them  to 
dream  about?  They  live.  But  we  don't  know  how 
to  live.  We  are  always  waiting — or  remembering." 

"As  a  background,  however,  I  would  prefer  Cam 
pania  to  Vermont!" 

"No,  it  is  not  for  us,"  she  repeated.    "Our  roots 


UNTO   THE   DAY  127 

are  not  here:  how  can  we  grow?  But  it  is  curious 
how  it  catches  us  all,  and  how  it  is  typical  of  desire 
fulfilled.  What  does  one  ever  really  attain,  really 
possess?  Things  are  too  great  or  too  unresponsive, 
and  always  too  mysterious.  Even  a  little  gem  that 
you  can  hold  in  your  hand  and  never  let  escape:  how 
much  is  it  yours — that  strange  indifferent  fire?  There 
is  no  possession.  Instead  of  getting  something  else  we 
lose  something  of  ourselves.  After  all,  people  like 
Achille  down  there  are  happiest,  who  live  their 
moment  so  intensely  that  they  lose  themselves  all  at 
once  instead  of  by  slow  shreds  and  patches.  The 

moment  is  everything.  After  that "  She  put 

her  hand  to  her  cheek  with  a  motion  of  weariness. 
Then  she  suddenly  looked  at  Martin  and  laughed. 
"Do  you  see  that  sun?  I  presume  the  police  have 
already  been  notified  of  my  disappearance!  I  must 
beg  your  pardon  for  having  given  you  such  a  day  of 
it,  and  ask  you  to  take  me  down." 

She  sprang  to  her  feet  and  Martin  followed,  re 
luctantly. 

"I  suppose  I  shall  wake  up,"  he  said,  as  they  de 
scended  the  winding  steps,  "and  find  that  you  were 
a  dream.  When  I  feel  as  I  do,  that  I  have  known  you 
all  my  life,  and  then  reflect  that  twelve  hours  ago  I 
had  never  set  eyes  on  you — that  even  now  I  know  no 
more  about  you  than  that  you  have  a  tower  in  Posi- 
lipo — I  am  inclined  to  doubt  the  so-called  realities  of 
existence." 

Again  she  laughed. 


128  UNTO   THE  DAY 

"Why?  The  actual  matter  of  prolonged  passions 
has  occupied  less  time!  I  don't  see  what  more  I 
could  possibly  tell  you.  The  rest  would  be  merely 
frills.  But  people  waste  so  much  time  in  these  things. 
Don't  you  think  so?  They  miss  so  many  chances, 
waiting  for  each  other  to  begin  and  manoeuvring  each 
other  to  the  proper  point.  That  is  why  I  came  with 
you  this  morning — because  you  lost  no  time.  Think 
how  different  it  would  have  been  if  you  had  not  way 
laid  me  so  unpardonably!" 

Martin  did  think  so.  The  consciousness  of  it  sud 
denly  overwhelmed  him  as  they  came  out  into  the 
deserted  square  and  crossed  to  the  Via  Santa  Maria. 
He  would  not  even  have  looked  back,  but  for  his 
companion. 

"See!  "she  cried. 

The  dome  of  the  baptistery,  the  roof  of  the  cathe 
dral,  the  top  of  the  tower  where  they  had  been,  were 
alight  with  a  delicate  rose  glow  which  contrasted 
extraordinarily  with  the  cold  white  of  the  lower 
shadow.  The  spectacle  was  to  Martin  symbolic  and 
revealing.  He  saw  as  if  apart  from  himself  the  ro 
mance  of  his  day.  Could  it  really  have  been  he  to 
whom  this  adventure  had  fallen?  He  glanced  fur 
tively  at  his  companion.  Was  she  the  intimate 
stranger  with  whom  he  had  been?  It  pleased  him 
that  he  had  known  herself  before  knowing  things 
about  her.  There  would  be  so  much  more  signifi 
cance  in  making  last  the  steps  of  acquaintance  which 
usually  come  first.  But  she  looked  weary,  and  a 


UNTO   THE   DAY  129 

thousand  uncertainties,  a  thousand  concerns,  as 
sailed  him.  He  could  not  find  courage  to  say  the 
things  which  rose  to  his  lips.  His  thoughts,  however, 
wove  themselves  into  a  tissue  of  dreams. 

So  they  went  silently  down  the  crooked  street 
which  at  last  left  them  on  the  Lungarno  Regio. 
Martin  hardly  knew  where  he  was.  Through  the 
gateway  between  the  houses  where  the  Arno  wound 
out  to  the  plain  the  splendour  of  sunset  streamed 
into  the  city,  touching  the  dusty  facades  with  a 
fairy  glamour,  filling  the  sandy  river  bed  with  un 
dreamed  secrets  of  colour,  transmuting  the  parcelled 
water  into  purple  and  gold.  The  quay  where  Martin 
had  that  morning  discovered  two  persons  was 
crowded  with  carriages  and  pedestrians  enjoying  the 
cool  of  the  day.  The  theatrical  vivacity  of  the 
people,  their  unaccustomed  faces,  their  foreign  speech, 
gave  a  new  poignancy  to  his  mood  of  exaltation. 

One  of  the  carriages  in  the  slow  progress  caused 
some  confusion  by  driving  out  of  line.  Martin  no 
ticed  the  handsome  horses,  the  correct  footman,  the 
old  lady  with  a  black  parasol.  She  eyed  him  narrowly 
as  the  landau  drove  up  to  the  curb.  He  called  the 
attention  of  his  companion,  who  was  looking  toward 
the  river. 

She  turned. 

"Ah!"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  bow  and  a  smile  to 
the  lady  in  the  carriage,  "I  am  afraid  I  must  go." 
He  looked  blankly  into  her  eyes  as  she  hesitated  a 
moment.  "It  was  a  nice  day!  It  was  so  long  sir, ce 


130  UNTO   THE  DAY 

I  had  seen  anybody.  And  the  cloister — that  was 
nice.  I  shall  always  think  of  you  there.  It  would 
have  been  so  different  if  we  had  not  been  ready! 
Good-bye,  Achille." 

The  footman  held  open  the  emblazoned  door. 

"Good-bye — Elisabeth!"  said  Martin,  too  dazed 
to  think  or  utter  more. 

The  door  clicked,  the  footman  leaped  to  his  box, 
the  coachman  flicked  the  horses.  Beside  the  black 
parasol  a  white  one  went  up,  hiding  the  figure  behind 
it.  Martin's  first  impulse  was  to  follow,  to  see  where 
the  carriage  went.  He  began  to  walk  hastily  in  the 
direction  it  had  taken,  watching  the  two  parasols. 
Then  he  stopped  and  turned  resolutely  away.  "Le- 
quel  Achille  voulut  faire  le  voyage  d'ltalie,"  he  said  to 
himself.  "Priez  pour  le  salut  de  son  time." 

Wondering  miserably  what  he  should  do  with  him 
self,  Martin  cast  an  indifferent  glance  at  the  building 
in  front  of  him.  It  was  one  of  the  high  dark-browed 
Tuscan  palazzi,  broad-eaved  and  strong-barred  like 
the  great  houses  of  Florence.  The  entrance  was 
closed.  Above  the  massive  archway  was  a  device 
that  attracted  the  young  man's  attention.  A  frag 
ment  of  chain  hung  there,  from  a  bolt  projecting 
above  the  keystone;  and  between  the  chain  and  a 
high  stone  escutcheon  ran  the  legend,  in  letters  of 
tarnished  brass  let  into  the  weathered  marble: 

ALLA  GIORNATA 


J 

MRS.   DERWALL  AND  THE  HIGHER  LIFE 


MRS.  Hopp,  ma'am,"  announced    the   maid 
from  the  door. 
"Mrs.    Hopp?"  repeated    Mrs.    Derwall 
slowly.    "Very  well.    You  may  show  her  up  here." 
And  when  no  maid  was  there  to  answer:    "I  wonder 
what  Julie  Hopp  wants  now.    People  are  so  funny. 
The  ones  you  like  are  as  scarce  as  auks'  eggs,  while 
the  ones  who " 

But  at  that  moment  Mrs.  Hopp  somewhat  pre 
maturely  appeared.  Mrs.  Derwall  rose  to  meet  her 
with  outstretched  hands: 

"My  dear,  what  grandeur!  You  must  be  out  for 
a  campaign." 

"I  am,  Sophie  dear,"  responded  the  caller  with  an 
effusive  embrace.  "And  I  want  you  to  join  it.  Hur 
ry  up  and  put  your  hat  on." 

"If  that  were  all  I  had  to  put  on!  And  here  you 
have  been  prinking  since  five  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
What  in  the  world  are  you  up  to  now?" 

"Well,"  replied  Mrs.  Hopp,  "I'm  going  in  to  town 
on  the  ten-twenty,  to  begin  with.  And  then  I'm 
going  to  lunch  somewhere.  And  after  that  I'm  going 

shopping " 

131 


132  MRS.  DERWALL  AND  THE  HIGHER  LIFE 

Mrs.  Derwall  began  to  shake  her  head. 

"No  use  to  come  here,  Julie.  It's  too  soon  after 
Christmas.  And  I'm  on  my  June  allowance  now.  I 
sha'n't  be  able  to  stir  out  of  the  house  this  year — 
except  when  Lou  happens  to  feel  a  little  kindly  dis 
posed." 

The  melancholy  tone  of  this  declaration  caused 
Mrs.  Hopp  to  smile. 

"Well,  I'll  trust  Lou!" 

"If  he  would  trust  me  it  would  be  more  to  the 
point/'  sighed  his  wife. 

"But  it  would  be  most  so,"  pursued  her  caller, 
"if  you'd  only  let  me  finish  what  I  want  to  say. 
I've  got  a  treat  for  you." 

"0!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Derwall.    "A  s'prise?" 

"Yes.    Guess  what  it  is." 

"Amatine'e?" 

"Something  like  it,  only  nicer.  Not  that  every 
body  would  think  so;  but  people  who  know  would. 
You  will."  And  Mrs.  Hopp  beamed  upon  her  friend 
with  an  expression  in  which  the  freemasonry  of  the 
truly  superior  outdid  the  archness  of  her  who  would 
incite  to  curiosity. 

As  it  happened,- this  was  an  implication  which 
never  had  a  propitious  effect  upon  Mrs.  Derwall. 

"Julie,  you  are  so  mystifying,"  she  plaintively 
said.  But  she  evinced  so  small  a  disposition  to  pene 
trate  the  mystery  that  her  friend  was  compelled  to 
resume  her  tactics. 

"  It's  not  just  one  of  those  silly  plays,  with  a  pretty 


MRS  DERWALL  AND  THE  HIGHER  LIFE   133 

boy  to  play  it,"  she  uttered  solemnly.  "It's  really 
literary,  Sophie." 

"0  my!"  cried  Mrs.  Derwall  with  mediocre  en 
thusiasm.  "What  have  I  done,  Julie,  to  deserve 
this?" 

"You  don't  look  as  if  you  believed  me,  Sophie," 
protested  Mrs.  Hopp.  "But  just  wait.  It's  Profes 
sor  Murch's  first  lecture — Professor  Richard  Murch, 
you  know.  He's  going  to  give  a  course  on  Browning 
and  the  Higher  Life." 

"0,  is  he?"  The  triumph  with  which  Mrs.  Hopp 
delivered  herself  of  her  momentous  intelligence  was 
only  equalled  by  the  calm  with  which  her  interloc 
utress  received  it.  There  ensued  a  brief  pause, 
during  which  the  two  ladies  studied  each  other.  Then 
Mrs.  Derwall  suddenly  realised  that  the  floor  was 
still  hers. 

"It's  awfully  sweet  of  you,  Julie.  But  I  don't 
know  where  you  get  the  idea  that  I'm  liter'y.  I'm 
not  a  bit,  you  know — or  poetical,  either.  And  as  for 
the  Higher  Life — why,  really,  Julie,  life  in  the  sub 
urbs  is  high  enough  for  me.  I  think  you  ought  to 
take  somebody  who  could  appreciate  it  better. 
There's  Miss  Higginson,  for  instance." 

"Miss  Higginson!"  burst  out  Mrs.  Hopp.  "I 
don't  want  Miss  Higginson,  Sophie.  I  want  you. 
And  you  needn't  tell  me  you  don't  care  for  such 
things.  I  know  you  better.  You  are  too  modest. 
And  if  you  could  hear  that  man — the  things  he 
says !" 


134  MRS.  DERWALL  AND  THE  HIGHER  LIFE 

Mrs.  Derwall  sat  up  very  straight. 

"H'm,  my  dear!  No,  thank  you.  I  might  gulp 
down  Browning,  perhaps.  But  I  can't  swallow 
your  Perch " 

"Murch,  Sophie/7 

"Murch,  then,  on  top  of  him.  There  I  draw  the 
line." 

Mrs.  Hopp  looked  a  little  agitated. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Sophie?  Do  you — do  you, 
perhaps,  know  anything  against  him?" 

"Yes,  I  do,"  declared  Mrs.  Derwall. 

"What?"  inquired  Mrs.  Hopp  with  hesitation. 
"Is  it  anything  I  should  know?" 

"Indeed  it  is,  my  dear!  But  if  you  haven't  found 
it  out  yet  you  never  will,"  replied  Mrs.  Derwall  with 
more  emphasis  than  tact. 

"What?"  asked  Mrs.  Hopp  again.  "I  wouldn't 
want  to  be  countenancing  anything,  you  know." 

"Well,"  put  forth  Mrs.  Derwall  oracularly,  "any 
man  who  spends  his  time  talking  to  women  is  a  fool. 
I  don't  care  what  he  talks  about." 

Mrs.  Hopp  stared  at  her  friend  with  a  dumb  amaze 
ment  in  which  there  was  something  of  expectation 
unfulfilled.  At  last,  however,  she  found  words  of 
protest. 

"But,  Sophie— aren't  you  a  woman  yourself?" 

"I'm  sorry  to  say  I  am,"  admitted  Mrs.  Derwall, 
without  hedging.  "And  I'm  heartily  ashamed  of  it." 

Mrs.  Hopp  was  again  lost  in  stupefaction.  And 
then: 


MRS.  DERWALL  AND  THE  HIGHER  LIFE  135 

"Is  it  your  idea,  Sophie/'  she  inquired  a  little  dis 
tantly,  "that  we — that  Professor  Murch's  friends 
make  fools  of  themselves  over  him?" 

"Since  you  ask,  Julie  love,  I  am  obliged  to  confess 
that  you  divine  my  idea  precisely." 

"Sophie,  you're  horrid!"  retorted  Mrs.  Hopp. 
"Men  could  go  if  they  wanted  to,  but  they're  too 
busy — and  too  many  other  things.  Don't  you  some 
times  think,  Sophie,  that  men  are  a  little  lacking  in 
some  things?  That  they  are  rather— coarse?  "  But 
a  light  in  her  companion's  eye  warned  her  back  to 
relevancy.  "Besides,  he's  married." 

"All  the  worse!"  briskly  commented  Mrs.  Der- 
wall,  whose  sex  enabled  her  to  follow  the  train  of 
Mrs.  Hopp's  thought.  "And  I  can  be  pretty  sure 
that  you've  never  seen  his  wife." 

"It's  perfectly  true  that  I  haven't,"  proclaimed 
Mrs.  Hopp,  unabashed.  "But  it's  a  case  of  'un 
known  wives  of  famous  men' — don't  you  know? 
She's  probably  nice  enough,  only  the  quiet  sort  you 
don't  get  acquainted  with  easily.  And  perhaps" — 
Mrs.  Hopp  took  on  an  air  of  high  misericord — "not 
very  congenial.  You'd  think  that  if  she  really  cared 
for  what  her  husband  says  she'd  be  more  in  evidence 
at  his  lectures." 

Mrs.  Derwall  let  herself  go  the  length  of  a 
laugh. 

"As  if  she  didn't  know  them  by  heart!  I  guess 
she's  sorry  for  the  day  she  first  let  herself  listen  to 
them.  She  probably  taught  Lurch " 


136   MRS.  DERWALL  AND  THE  HIGHER  LIFE 

"Murch,  Sophie." 

"Murch,  then,  what  an  agreeable  sensation  it  was 
to  have  ladies  hang  on  his  lips;  and  when  she  got 
tired  of  listening  he  tried  it  on  the  rest  of  you.  Be 
sides,  if  she  were  there  it  would  spoil  the  whole 
show." 

"Sophie,  you're  just  as  nasty  as  you  can  be!"  cried 
Mrs.  Hopp.  "He  needs  the  money.  I  know  he 
does.  He  looks  so  ill,  too — so  pale  and  thin.  It 
makes  your  heart  ache  to  see  him.  And  when  he 
reads  'James  Lee's  Wife' " 

Words  failed  her.  As  for  Mrs.  Derwall,  she  gave 
vent  to  a  perceptible  sniff. 

"  Of  course  he  looks  pale !  Anybody  can  look  pale. 
You  can  look  pale.  I  can  look  pale.  How  can  he 
help  looking  pale  if  he  eats  all  the  luncheons  you 
stuff  him  with?  And  if  he  looked  red  and  fat  do  you 
suppose  anybody  would  pay  him  to  read  love 
poems?" 

Mrs.  Hopp  tossed  her  head. 

"It's  all  very  well  for  you  to  talk.  But  you 
haven't  seen  him,  and  I  have.  Besides,  you  haven't 
been  through  things.  If  you  knew  what  the  world 
really  is!  If  you  knew,  Sophie  Derwall!"  Mrs. 
Hopp,  who  was  in  receipt  of  comfortable  alimony 
from  a  good-natured  button  manufacturer,  darted 
upon  her  friend  the  meaning  glances  of  one  who  has 
drained  life's  goblet  to  the  lees.  "No,  some  people 
are  fated  to  make  mistakes.  And  to  pay  for  them, 
Sophie.  I  know  Professor  Murch  is  unhappy.  If 


MRS.  DERWALL  AND  THE  HIGHER  LIFE   137 

you  could  only  hear  how  he  talks  about  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Browning !" 

Mrs.  Derwall  was  able  to  contain  herself  no  longer. 

"Julie  Hopp!"  she  burst  out.  "Never  speak  to 
me  again  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Browning!  Never!  never! 
never!  I  can't  stand  them.  They  were  the  two 
most  colossal  bores  and  fakes  of  the  nineteenth 
century !  Posilutely ! ' ' 

The  other  lady  was  at  first  too  horrified  for  words. 
Then  dignity  and  scorn  supported  her,  like  carya 
tides,  on  either  hand.  Which  spectacle,  it  must  be 
said  in  passing,  restored  to  Mrs.  Derwall  her  tran 
quillity. 

"Sophie  Derwall,"  at  length  demanded  the  out 
raged  Mrs.  Hopp,  "how  dare  you  say  such  mon 
strous  things?  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me — you  who 
pretend  to  read  so  much,  to  care  so  little  for  ephem 
eral  literature — do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you 
care  nothing  for  Browning?"  To  register  her  into 
nation  of  the  sacred  syllables  is  a  feat  quite  beyond 
the  resources  of  unfeeling  print. 

"Very  little,  Julie,"  responded  Mrs.  Derwall  pleas 
antly,  "very  little.  And  the  fact  that  ten  million 
women  go  into  spasms  over  him  makes  me  care  less. 
I  prefer  Lewis  Carroll." 

At  that  moment  Providence  interposed,  in  the 
person  of  the  maid. 

"A  gentleman  in  the  reception-room,  ma'am.  What 
shall  I ?" 

Mrs.  Hopp  rose  with  majesty. 


138  MRS.  DERWALL  AND  THE  HIGHER  LIFE 

"I  won't  keep  you,  Sophie.  I  must  catch  my 
train.  I  am  sorry  you  won't  come  with  me.  You 
don't  know  what  you  miss.  And  we  may  not  have 
many  more  opportunities  to  do  things  together.  I 
meant  to  tell  you — if  you  had  given  me  a  chance." 

Mrs.  Derwall  took  it  with  humility,  yet  with 
amiability. 

"You  really  make  me  ashamed  of  myself,  Julie," 
she  returned.  "It  was  lovely  of  you  to  think  of  me. 
I'll  go  with  you  another  time — to  the  Palace  or  the 
Rivoli,  perhaps.  They  are  more  in  my  line,  you 
know.  Good-bye,  dearie." 

II 

"  Is  this  the  lady  of  the  house?  "  inquired  the  gen 
tleman  in  the  reception-room  as  Mrs.  Derwall  ap 
peared  upon  the  threshold. 

This  question  caused  her  to  halt  in  her  progress, 
and  recalled  to  her  mind  the  fact  that  she  had  re 
sponded  to  the  maid's  announcement  with  rather 
more  precipitation  than  she  might  under  other  cir 
cumstances  have  displayed. 

"It  is,"  she  somewhat  stiffly  replied.  "But  I  re 
gret  to  say  that  she  requires  no  books  to-day." 

"0,  please  wait  a  minute!"  cried  the  caller  as  she 
started  to  retire.  "I  knew  I  should  trip  up.  I  was 
so  sure  you  would  take  me  for  a  book  agent  that  I 
hypnotised  myself  into  beginning  like  one.  But  I'm 
not  one.  I  never  was  one.  I  never  shall  be  one.  I 
abominate  books!" 


MRS.  DERWALL  AND  THE  HIGHER  LIFE  139 

He  ended  almost  violently.  And  as  she  listened 
Mrs.  Derwall  could  see  very  well  that  he  was  not 
what  she  thought. 

"I  won't  run  away  yet,  then,"  she  laughed.  "You 
are  too  encouraging.  I  have  just  estranged  a  lifelong 
friend  by  telling  her  much  the  same  thing,  and  I  was 
in  danger — well,  of  caving  a  little." 

"Dear  me!  Don't  cave  when  you  have  as 
good  ground  as  that  under  your  feet!  What  will 
you  do  when  you  get  to  a  real  quicksand?  I  evident 
ly  appeared  on  the  scene  just  in  time.  I  shall  give  you 
all  the  moral  support  you  want.  I  dare  say  I  can 
damn  and  double-damn  books  in  more  kinds  of  ways 
than  you  ever  dreamed.  Life  is  so  amusing  that  I 
continually  wonder  how  people  can  turn  their  eyes 
from  it  long  enough  to  look  at  a  book." 

"How  about  the  Higher  Life?"  inquired  Mrs. 
Derwall  demurely. 

"What  in  the  world  is  that?"  demanded  the  caller, 
mystified.  He  looked  about  the  room,  much  as  if  he 
expected  to  see  its  legs  sticking  out  from  behind  the 
curtains. 

"Don't  ask  me!"  Mrs.  Derwall  waved  it  from  her. 
"Ask  any  other  woman  but  me.  I  don't  know.  I 
don't  want  to  know.  I've  just  refused  to  go  to  town 
with  my  lifelong  friend  and  find  out.  There's  a 
Professor  Richard  Church,  or  Birch,  or  Smirch,  or 
somebody,  who  tells  people  at  two  dollars  a  head. 
But  it's  not  too  late  for  you.  The  eleven-five  train 
will  do  you  quite  nicely." 


140  MRS.  DERWALL  AND  THE  HIGHER  LIFE 

"Ah!"  ejaculated  the  caller.  "I  don't  think  I'm 
in  such  a  hurry  as  all  that."  He  still  looked  rather 
curiously  about,  however.  "But  you  frighten  me. 
You  frighten  me  more  than  I  expected.  I  don't 
know  whether  I  shall  dare  to  tell  you  what  I  came 
for." 

Mrs.  Derwall,  who  found  that  things  were  going 
very  well,  encouraged  him. 

"Don't  be  afraid  of  me.  I  am  quite  harmless. 
More  than  that,  I  am  the  most  helpless  of  creatures 
in  the  face  of  a  determined  appeal.  What  are  you 
— patent  medicine?  Needles?  Charity?  Gold 
mines?  I  may  invest  in  you  yet." 

"But  it's  nothing  of  that  kind!  It's  just  the  op 
posite.  I  don't  want  to  take  money  out  of  your 
pocket.  I  want  to  put  it  in." 

"Then  you're  the  man  for  me!"  cried  Mrs.  Der 
wall.  "Christmas  has  gone,  and  ruin  stares  me  in 
the  face!" 

"You  reassure  me,"  smiled  the  caller.  " But  don't 
go  too  far.  Don't,  for  instance,  imagine  me  the  at 
torney  of  a  maiden  aunt,  come  to  hand  over  a  hand 
some  legacy.  And  don't  read  pure  altruism  in  my 

countenance.  I "  He  began  to  laugh.  "Shall  I 

say  it?" 

"If  it's  respectable,"  said  Mrs.  Derwall.  "You 
begin  to  make  me  ask  myself  questions." 

"It's  only  too  respectable,  heaven  knows!  But 
it's  a  little  unexpected.  It  will  take  your  breath 
away.  You  may  scream.  You  might  even  faint. 


MRS.  DERWALL  AND  THE  HIGHER  LIFE   141 

One  never  can  tell  what  ladies  will  do.  Are  you 
temperamental?  " 

Mrs.  Derwall  sniffed.  There  was  that  in  her  sniff 
however,  which  intimated  that  she  was  not  unwilling 
to  hear  what  her  visitor  had  to  impart. 

"I  like  that!  Do  I  look  so  much  like  the  Eternal 
Feminine?  Do  your  direst  and  I  promise  you  not  to 
make  a  scene." 

"Well,  then,"  said  the  caller,  "I  throw  the 
responsibility  on  you.  I  came  in  to  buy  your 
house." 

If  faces  could  fall,  as  literature  popularly  affirms, 
Mrs.  Derwall's  would  have  bumped  the  floor  with 
some  force.  As  it  was  she  treated  her  interlocutor 
to  a  stare  in  which  the  surprise  he  had  predicted 
mingled  with  disillusion.  She  therefore  stretched 
the  truth. 

"Why,  I  don't  want  to  sell  my  house,"  she  uttered 
briefly. 

The  stranger  did  not  appear  to  be  in  the  least  dis 
concerted. 

"So  far,  so  good.  I've  found  out,  at  any  rate,  that 
the  house  is  yours  to  sell.  It  might  have  been  some 
body  else's.  And  let  me  congratulate  you  on  your 
self-control." 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  is  somebody  else's — namely 
my  husband's,"  rejoined  that  gentleman's  consort 
with  dignity. 

"0,  well,  that  is  a  mere  detail  which  does  not 
affect  the  case,"  remarked  the  caller  easily.  "Of 


142  MRS.  DERWALL  AND  THE  HIGHER  LIFE 

course  the  point  is  whether  you  would  make  any 
objection  to  his  parting  with  it." 

Mrs.  Derwall  glanced  vaguely  about.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  she  and  Lou  had  discussed  the  matter  no 
later  than  last  night.  But  to  have  the  hypothetical 
purchaser  suddenly  materialise  made  her  search  her 
own  mind  again.  Besides,  she  felt  an  indefinable 
resentment  against  her  visitor  for  having  turned  out 
so  much  less  interesting  than  he  seemed  to  promise. 

"What  in  the  world  do  you  want  of  the  place?" 
she  asked  at  last. 

"Nothing  improper,  I  assure  you!  I  merely  want 
to  live  in  it." 

"But  why?  Have  you  ever  been  in  it  before? 
Does  it  hold  some  romance  for  you?" 

"Romance!  Heavens  no!  What  have  romance 
and  I  to  do  with  each  other?  I  am  a  married  man. 
I  just  happened  to  be  passing  by,  and  it  beckoned 
to  me.  'That  is  the  house  for  me/  I  said,  and  I 
walked  straight  in." 

"But  what  do  you  see  in  it?"  demanded  Mrs. 
Derwall,  casting  her  eye  once  more  about. 

"I  see  everything  you  don't,"  responded  the  caller 
quickly.  "  To  say  nothing  of  a  very  agreeable  host 
ess,  it's  just  the  right  size,  it's  just  the  right  colour, 
it's  in  just  the  right  place.  How  did  you  happen 
to  build  it  so  exactly  for  me?  " 

"We  didn't!" 

"Madam,  you  surprise  me.  You  exhibit  every 
symptom  of  a  lady  who  has  lived  to  repent  of  her 


MRS.  DERWALL  AND  THE  HIGHER  LIFE   143 

architectural  errors.  If  you  bought  the  house  out 
right,  as  I  hope  to  do,  I  should  not  expect  that  you 
would  even  listen  to  me.  As  it  is,  however,  I  have 
hopes  of  prevailing  upon  you  to  let  me  have  it." 

"I  have  nothing  to  say  about  it,"  replied  Mrs. 
Derwall  with  an  air  of  finality.  "You  will  have  to 
see  my  husband." 

"Of  course!  And  I  shall  be  delighted  to  do  so  at 
the  earliest  possible  moment.  But  in  the  meantime, 
in  order  that  I  may  do  so  with  the  more  intelligence, 
would  you  mind  showing  me  the  premises?" 

Mrs.  Derwall  laughed  in  spite  of  herself. 

" Gracious!  How  persistent  you  are!  You  are  per 
fectly  welcome  to  look  around.  Only  mind:  I  don't 
exhibit  as  to  a  prospective  buyer;  I  show  as  to  a  visit 
ing  friend.  I  have  no  more  idea  of  getting  up  and 
moving  out  and  going  all  thrqugh  the  torment  of 
architects  and  builders  and  strikes  and  heaven  knows 
what,  than  I  have  of " 

"Of  going  to  Professor  Murch's  lectures,"  sug 
gested  the  caller  with  a  smile. 

"Yes.  Thank  you.  I  couldn't  think  of  anything 
impossible  enough.  Will  you  come  this  way?  This 
is  the  reception-room,  you  see.  There  is  a  library  on 
the  other  side  of  the  hall."  And  without  further  ado 
she  led  the  way  through  the  rooms. 

Having  recovered  her  poise,  and  perhaps  with  a 
new  appreciation  of  her  companion's  qualities,  Mrs. 
Derwall  proceeded  to  enter  into  the  spirit  of  the 
occasion — as  she  well  knew  how.  They  had  a  very 


144  MRS.  DERWALL  AND  THE  HIGHER  LIFE 

lively  time  of  it.  They  went  upstairs.  They  went 
downstairs.  They  explored  every  cupboard  and  cub 
byhole.  They  examined  the  plumbing.  They  criti 
cised  the  colour  schemes.  Mrs.  Derwall  expatiated 
on  all  the  disadvantages  of  the  house.  Her  visitor 
seized  unerringly  upon  every  advantage.  And  so  at 
last  they  completed  in  the  cellar  their  round  of  in 
spection. 

"This  is  the  very  nicest  part  of  the  house,"  sighed 
Mrs.  Derwall.  "It's  so  dry  and  comfortable  and 
cosy  that  I  often  wake  up  in  the  night  and  wish  I 
were  in  it!" 

The  visitor  turned  solemnly  upon  her. 

"Madam,"  he  began,  "its  qualities  are  such  that 
I  am  completely  undone.  Such  a  laundry,  such 
storerooms,  such  coal-bins,  never  were  on  sea  or  land. 
I  shall  not  draw  a  peaceful  breath  until  they  are 
mine.  Believe  me,  madam;  never,  never  in  this 
world.  You  will  do  me  an  irreparable  injury  if  you 
refuse  to  sell  me  this  house.  You  don't  care  two 
pins  about  it.  I  do.  Sell  it  to  me,  then.  It  is  small, 
but  I  shall  give  you  sixteen  thousand  dollars  for  it. 
Now,  this  minute."  And  drawing  a  cheque-book 
from  his  pocket  he  uncapped  his  fountain-pen. 
"What  name  shall  I  put  down?" 

Mrs.  Derwall  was  too  much  surprised  by  the  sud 
denness  of  his  onslaught  to  answer. 

"Isn't  it  a  fair  price?"  inquired  her  companion. 
"  If  you  don't  think  so  I  am  sure  we  shall  have  no 
trouble  in  coming  to  terms." 


MRS.  DERWALL  AND  THE  HIGHER  LIFE  145 

"Yes,"  uttered  Mrs.  Derwall  slowly.    "But " 

The  stranger  cut  her  off. 

"Of  course  I  have  no  idea  of  trying  to  force  you 
to  do  what  you  don't  want.  So  far  as  that  goes,  how 
ever,  I  fancy  that  you're  pretty  well  able  to  take  care 
of  your  end  of  a  bargain.  But  it  strikes  me  as  rather 
a  good  deal  for  you.  You  can  recoup  yourself  for 
Christmas,  and  then  you  can  go  to  Palm  Beach  or 
Cairo  or  Zanzibar  or  somewhere  for  the  bad  part  of 
the  winter,  while  I  am  freezing  here." 

"Why,  when  would  you  want  to  come  in?"  asked 
Mrs.  Derwall. 

"Let's  see."  He  began  calculating  on  his 
fingers.  "To-day  is  Thursday.  Friday,  Saturday, 
Sunday — I  want  to  come  in  Monday.  Next  Mon 
day.  That  will  give  me  time  to  get  settled  before 
Wednesday." 

Mrs.  Derwall  all  but  shrieked. 

"Why,  my  dear  man,  have  you  lost  your  mind?  I 
never  heard  of  such  a  thing  in  my  life.  It  would  take 
me  from  now  till  then  to  get  ready  if  I  began  this 
minute.  And  I  have  a  week-end  party  on  and 
couldn't  begin  to  touch  a  thing  till  Tuesday  at  the 
very  earliest.  I  like  your  blandness!" 

He  was  imperturbable. 

"My  dear  lady,  you  can  do  it  perfectly  well.  I 
have  done  it  myself  a  dozen  times.  All  it  needs  is  a 
little  generalship.  You  just  arrange  things  before 
hand — with  squads  of  packers  and  cleaners  to  follow 
each  other.  You  could  clear  out  Windsor  Castle  in 


146  MRS.  DERWALL  AND  THE  HIGHER  LIFE 

a  day,  that  way.  Of  course  I  divide  the  expense  with 
you.  Come,  what  name  shall  I  write?  " 

Mrs.  Derwall  hardly  heard  him  through.  She 
collapsed  upon  a  soapbox,  and  she  laughed  until  her 
visitor  began  to  scratch  his  head. 

"You  ridiculous  man!"  she  gasped,  wiping  her 
eyes.  "I  declare,  you  deserve  the  house!  A  man 
who  knows  what  he  wants  to  that  degree!  Who  in 
the  world  are  you,  that  you  suavely  propose  to  me 
to  move  out  in  a  day?  It's  like  carrying  off  the 
roof  from  over  my  head!  Go  on!  You  shall  have 
it  in  spite  of  everything.  I  don't  know  what  my 
husband  will  "do  to  me,  but  it's  not  often  given 
one  to  be  sublime.  Louis  N.  Derwall  is  the  name. 
L-o-u- 

And  off  she  went  again.  By  the  time  she  came 
back  the  cheque  was  ready  for  her.  She  took  it  with 
a  certain  eagerness,  for  she  was  not  without  her  curi 
osities.  But  after  one  glance  she  suddenly  sobered. 
She  eyed  the  paper  some  time  without  saying  a  word. 
Finally,  however,  she  looked  up  at  the  signatory, 
who  stood  quizzically  watching  her. 

"Professor  Richard  Murch?"  she  asked. 

"The  same!"  responded  that  personage,  with  an 
elaborate  bow. 

"The  Professor  Richard  Murch  who  lectures  to 
ladies  about  Browning  and  the  Higher  Life?" 

"The  very  one.  And  if  I  don't  hurry  I  shall  be 
late  for  the  lecture  you  refused  to  go  to.  Will  you 
come  now?" 


MRS.  DERWALL  AND  THE  HIGHER  LIFE  147 

She  did  not  answer  at  first.  She  looked  him  slowly 
up  and  down  for  as  much  as  a  minute.  Then  she  rose, 
leisurely  crossed  the  cellar  to  the  furnace,  opened  the 
door,  and  threw  in  the  cheque.  After  which  she 
looked  back  over  her  shoulder. 

"No  thank  you,  professor.  And  that's  what  I 
think  of  you  and  your  cheque.  Good  morning." 

She  turned  her  back  on  him  again.  She  took  up  a 
shovel.  She  made  for  the  coalbin. 

At  that  Mr.  Murch,  who  had  hitherto  said  noth 
ing,  started  across  the  floor. 

"Permit  me,  Mrs.  Derwall.  You  may  not  care  to 
sell  me  so  admirable  a  furnace,  but  you  will,  atjeast, 
allow  me  to  stoke  it  this  once." 

The  offended  matron  tossed  her  head. 

"By  no  means,  Mr.  Murch.  I  wouldn't  think  of 
letting  you  soil  your  poetical  Jiands.  Remember 
your  ladies.  They  pant  for  you.  As  for  me,  I  am 
quite  able  to  look  after  my  own  furnace,  thank  you. 
I  am  not  a  disciple  of  the  Higher  Life,  you  know.  I 
make  pies  instead  of  reading  poetry.  And  when  it 
comes  to  shovelling  coal,  I  dare  say  I  am  rather  more 
expert  than  you  are."  With  which  she  emptied  her 
shovel  through  the  furnace  door. 

"Madam,  it  pains  me  to  contradict  you"  re 
marked  the  professor,  who  had  kept  a  critical  eye 
upon  this  manoeuvre.  "I  am  only  too  well  aware 
that  my  other  offences  are  gross  enough.  But  Truth 
and  Honour  alike  compel  me  to  confess  that  I  can 
shovel  coal  better  than  that!" 


148  MRS.  DERWALL  AND  THE  HIGHER  LIFE 

Mrs.  Derwall's  wrath  had  hitherto  maintained 
lofty  heights.  But  she  now  began  to  break  down. 
She  betrayed  the  first  signs  of  a  womanly  irritation. 
She  snorted  contemptuously.  "I'd  like  to  see  you! 
I  bet  you  can't." 

The  professor  held  her  eye. 

"Do  you  mean  it?"  he  asked. 

"I  do  mean  it,  Mr.  Murch!"  rejoined  Mrs.  Der- 
wall  with  some  spirit.  "What's  more,  I'll  stake  the 
house  on  it.  If  you  can  throw  three  shovelfuls  into 
that  furnace  without  dropping  one  coal  or  once  hit 
ting  the  side  of  the  door,  I'll  take  another  cheque 
from  you." 

The  lecturer  to  ladies  smiled. 

"That's  a  sporting  proposition,  Mrs.  Derwall. 
But  as  evidence  that  I  have  no  wish  to  get  your  house 
from  you  again  under  false  pretences,  I  will  thank 
you  for  your  courtesy  and  wish  you  a  very  good 
morning." 

"Come,  come,  Mr.  Murch!"  cried  Mrs.  Derwall 
derisively.  "You  don't  back  out  like  that.  I  want 
to  see  how  well  you  acquit  yourself.  Here's  the 
shovel.  And  if  you  fulfill  the  terms  it  is  yours — with 
the  house." 

He  took  the  shovel  which  she  handed  him.  He 
looked  at  her  a  moment,  to  give  her  time  to  retract. 
He  got  out  his  fountain  pen  again  and  started  to  re 
write  his  cheque. 

"Seventeen  thousand,  did  we  say?"  he  inquired. 

Mrs.  Derwall  chuckled  on  her  soap  box. 


MRS.  DERWALL  AND  THE  HIGHER  LIFE  149 

"  I  don't  take  bribes,  Mr.  Murch.  Why  not  make 
it  fifteen?  Cheques  are  cheaper  than  houses." 

He  made  it  fifteen,  and  he  presented  it  to  Mrs. 
Derwall.  Then  he  turned  to  the  furnace.  And  he 
put  in  two  shovels  full  of  coal  so  quickly  and  so 
neatly  that  Mrs.  Derwall  saw  her  house  slipping 
from  under  her  feet.  But  before  filling  the  shovel 
the  third  time  Mr.  Murch  faced  her. 

"  By  the  way,"  he  said.  "  Do  you  happen  to  know 
a  Mrs.  Hopp?"  k 

Mrs.  Derwall  stiffened. 

"Yes.    She  was  here  when  you  came." 

" Dear  me!  Why  did  you  send  her  away?  I  really 
came  out  here,  you  know,  to  buy  her  house.  I — I 
hear  she  wants  to  sell  it.  Would  you  advise  me  to 
look  at  it?" 

Mrs.  Derwall  examined  her  cheque  reflectively. 

"Do  you  lecture  as  well  as  you  shovel  coal,  Mr. 
Murch?" 

"Goodness  no!"  he  replied.  "I  worked  my  way 
around  the  world,  once,  as  a  stoker.  But  I  make 
more  money  out  of  Browning.  I  fancy  I  make  more 
than  he  did.  Don't  you  think,  though,  that  I'd  bet 
ter  take  a  look  at  your  Mrs.  Hopp?  As  you  say, 
cheques  are  cheaper  than  houses." 

Mrs.  Derwall  re-examined  her  cheque. 

"She  isn't  there.  You're  keeping  her  waiting  in 
town  while  you  snatch  my  house  from  over  my  head. 
She " 

A  heavy  tread  sounded  on  the  cellar  stair.    There 


150  MRS.  DERWALL  AND  THE  HIGHER  LIFE 

descended  into  view  a  large  and  florid  gentleman 
who  gazed  with  some  surprise,  first  at  the  well- 
dressed  stranger  who  stood  in  front  of  his  furnace, 
toying  familiarly  with  his  coal  shovel,  then  at  Mrs. 
Derwall,  seated  on  her  soap  box  as  it  were  in  her 
boudoir,  conversing  with  the  same. 

Mrs.  Derwall  rose  to  the  occasion. 

"0  Lou!"  she  cried.  "Don't  you  think  a  cheque 
hi  the  hand  is  worth  two  in  the  f-ush?  We  start 
for  Zanzibar  Monday  night.  I've  found  you  a 
buyer  for  the  house.  Mr.  Murch,  Mr.  Derwall." 

And  she  handed  Lou  the  cheque. 


THE  BATHERS 

THE  painter  laughed  as  he  splashed  into  the 
shallows.  A  million  crabs  were  idling  in  the 
linked  gold  of  the  sun,  and  they  scurried  away 
or  burrowed  frantically  into  the  sand  at  his  irruption 
among  them.  He  waded  on,  catching  his  breath 
delightedly  at  the  freshness  of  the  rising  water.  The 
fancy  came  to  him  that  he  was  entering  a  new  world 
by  this  downward  path:  he  wondered  how  the  clouds 
would  look  from  the  bottom  of  the  sea — and  the 
stars,  and  the  scudding  bragozzi.  He  glanced  back 
a  moment,  to  the  world  from. which  he  had  fled.  The 
Alps  filled  the  horizon  with  pale  outlines  of  shadow. 
Between  them  and  the  long  spit  of  the  Lido  were 
shining  lagoon  spaces,  out  of  which  the  clustered 
towers  seemed  to  look  wistfully  over  into  the  unpent 
sea.  With  the  vividness  of  mirage  he  recalled  a 
placid  water  avenue  winding  green  between  its  lines 
of  awninged  palaces.  Then  he  turned  from  it  all,  in 
sudden  hatred  of  his  artificial  life,  of  the  restlessness 
to  express.  He  envied  the  fisherfolk  under  their  but 
terfly  sails  out  there  where  the  Adriatic  swept  bare 
and  blue  to  the  east.  There  were  the  true  creators! 
They  did  not  copy  those  colours  to  hang  on  a  wall. 
They  made  them — to  blow  in  the  open  sea,  to  toss 

151 


152  THE  BATHERS 

unspoiled  in  the  rains  of  heaven!  They  did  not 
watch.  They  lived. 

The  painter  threw  himself  forward  with  a  great 
splash,  opening  wide  his  arms  and  ducking  his  head 
as  if  in  homage.  He  laughed  as  he  came  up.  Blink 
ing  and  sputtering,  he  swam  lazily  to  the  full  extent 
of  his  limbs  in  the  joy  of  finding  himself  in  a  new 
element,  rid  of  the  last  conventionality  of  clothes. 
The  content  of  it  filled  him.  As  he  moved  over  green 
abysses,  somehow  hanging  miraculously  as  he  chose, 
he  seemed  to  be  free  from  even  so  dogging  a  burden 
as  Gravity.  And  his  whole  body — not  merely  hands 
and  face — was  alive  to  poignant  sensations,  to  the 
freshness  and  rhythm  of  the  sea. 

A  long  time  he  drifted  in  the  slow  swell,  jealous  to 
take  in  the  tingle  of  sea  and  sun  and  sky  through 
every  pore.  And  as  he  idly  floated  there  a  shout 
suddenly  startled  him  from  behind,  and  a  great  dash 
of  water  half  choked  him.  Then  someone  began  to 
laugh,  but  stopped  short.  When  at  last  he  could 
breathe  and  see,  he  found  a  young  man  regarding 
him  out  of  smiling  eyes  that  tried  to  look  grave. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  newcomer,  who 
spoke  in  the  slow  dialect  of  the  lagoon — so  different 
from  the  slippery  talk  of  the  Venetians.  "I  thought 
you  were  my  brother.  He  is  of  the  dazio  here  at 
Alberoni,  and  I  meant  to  surprise  him.  I  would  not 
have  disturbed  you  if  I  had  known." 

"No  matter,"  replied  the  painter.  "There  is 
room  in  the  sea  for  both  of  us." 


THE  BATHERS  153 

The  other  laughed,  regarding  the  painter  curiously. 

The  painter  returned  the  gaze  as  frankly.  With 
the  skilled  eye  of  his  craft,  yet  almost  as  if  his  fancy 
were  realised  and  this  were  the  first  met  of  a  new 
race,  he  noted  the  clear  tanned  skin,  the  set  of  the 
neck,  the  turn  of  the  sinewy  arm.  He  wondered  how 
they  would  understand  each  other,  forgetting  that 
they  had  already  spoken. 

"You  are  not  from  Chioggia,"  said  the  stranger. 
"I  know  almost  everybody  there;  and  then  you  do 
not  speak  their  language.  I  know  the  Pellestrina 
dialect  too,  and  the  Venetian,  and  the  Buranello; 
but  yours  is  different  from  them  all.  Where  is  your 
country?  I  am  from  Malamocco." 

The  painter  smiled. 

"Venice  is  my  country  now/'  he  answered,  "but 
I  speak  the  Florentine  dialect."  Although  he  had 
picked  up  the  speech  of  the  lagoon  his  foreign  accent 
always  betrayed  him. 

"Ah,  Fiorenza!"  exclaimed  the  stranger,  using  the 
beautiful  old  name  which  the  Florentines  themselves 
have  discarded.  "  That  is  on  the  mainland,  isn't  it? 
I  have  been  only  to  places  on  the  lagoon,  like  Cam- 
palto  and  La  Rana.  But  I  would  like  to  see  Florence, 
too.  .  .  You  swim  differently  there,  as  well  as  talk 
differently,"  he  added,  watching  the  painter's  stroke. 
"This  is  the  way  we  swim."  He  struck  out  hand 
over  hand,  throwing  his  body  from  one  side  to  the 
other  with 'great  splashes.  He  made  such  headway 
that  the  painter  could  not  keep  up  with  him.  "If 


154  THE   BATHERS 

you  swam  that  way  I  think  you  would  go  faster,"  he 
suggested  politely. 

"I  am  afraid  not,"  returned  the  painter.  "I  don't 
swim  very  well." 

"Can  you  dive?"  asked  the  stranger.  "Let's  see 
who  can  bring  up  something  first."  He  turned  a 
somersault  and  disappeared  glimmering  into  the 
green  depths,  whence  presently  he  shot  up  waving  a 
streamer  of  seaweed.  "Didn't  you  get  anything?" 
he  asked,  noting  his  companion's  empty  hand. 

"I  didn't  even  try,"  smiled  the  painter.  "You 
swim  much  better  than  I." 

"Ma/"  exclaimed  the  other.  "I  have  probably 
had  more  practice."  He  paused,  half  embarrassed. 
"I  think  I  will  swim  out  a  little.  Will  you  come?" 

"Thank  you,  but  perhaps  not,"  replied  the  painter. 
"I  have  been  out  a  good  while.  I  am  going  in  now." 

"Well,  have  you  forgiven  me  for  drowning  you? " 
laughed  the  stranger.  "A  rivedersi!" 

The  painter  watched  till  the  black  head  was  a  mere 
dancing  speck  in  the  water. 

"That  was  amusing,"  he  thought.  "He  wouldn't 
have  called  me  'thou'  if  I  had  had  my  clothes  on. 
And  he  is  a  better  man  than  I.  .  ." 

Back  on  the  beach  the  painter  abandoned  himself 
anew  to  sheer  sensation.  He  did  not  think.  He 
scarcely  remembered.  He  simply  felt  in  every  nerve 
the  glow  of  the  sun,  the  caress  of  the  air,  the  pulse  of 
the  sea  lapping  softly  at  his  feet.  As  he  lay  there, 
happy  and  languid  in  the  warm  sand,  the  sound  of 


THE  BATHERS  155 

splashing  in  the  shallows  came  like  an  intrusion. 
But  opening  his  eyes  he  saw  the  young  man  of  Mala- 
mocco  come  up  from  the  water,  seemly  and  sun 
burned  and  glistening  in  the  light.  It  might  have 
been  a  young  sea-god  rising  from  the  waves.  The 
painter  smiled  as  he  watched  the  dripping  apparition, 
so  in  keeping  with  his  humour.  The  youth  caught 
the  smile  and  answered  it.  He  came  and  threw  him 
self  down  in  the  sand  beside  the  painter.  They 
looked  at  one  another,  the  smile  still  in  their,eyes. 

The  painter  was  glad  he  had  hidden  his  clothes. 
He  felt  how  absurd  were  those  distinctions  in  the 
world  from  which  he  came,  of  nationality,  of  belief, 
of  rank.  They  could  be  laid  aside  with  one's  coat. 
This  was  another  world,  with  other  standards.  He 
and  the  young  man  beside  him — by  what  different 
roads  had  they  travelled  to  this  beach!  But  what 
influence  in  their  lives  had  wrought  upon  them  like 
that  secret  pre-natal  influence  which  on  separate 
continents,  among  different  races,  had  cast  them  in 
an  identical  mould?  Here  lay  the  two  of  them  to 
gether  by  the  sea,  children  both  of  earth,  without 
distinction  or  preference  between  them — unlpss  that 
most  ancient  preference  of  earth  for  the  fit. 

"How  white  you  are!"  exclaimed  the  stranger. 
"  I  am  all  black  from  the  sun."  He  lifted  his  arm  to 
show  how  the  darkness  of  the  lower  tan  shaded  into 
tone  but  a  trifle  paler.  "When  we  fish  in  the  lagoon 
we  often  go  like  this.  But  even  on  the  sea  the  sun 
burns  through  our  clothes.  I  have  always  been  black. 


156  THE  BATHERS 

I  never  saw  anybody  so  white  as  you  are — except 
perhaps  women,  and  sick  people,  and  the  signori  at 
the  Lido." 

Shame  filled  the  painter — shame,  and  a  passionate 
envy.  He  looked  admiringly  at  the  young  fisherman 
stretched  out  beside  him,  followed  all  the  lines  of  the 
strong  bronzed  figure,  without  a  curve  of  excess  in 
its  supple  youth,  and  without  one  of  deficiency.  Then 
he  glanced  at  his  own  lank  white  limbs.  He  felt  the 
cut  of  being  classed  with  women  and  sick  people  and 
signori!  This  was  the  only  shame  of  nakedness — to 
have  a  body  not  worth  looking  at.  Instinctively  he 
took  up  handfuls  of  the  fine  sand  and  poured  it  over 
himself.  The  mockery  of  the  life  he  had  fled  from 
that  morning  surged  back  over  him.  How  he  hated 
the  imprisonment  of  houses,  the  lure  of  ambition,  the 
thirst  for  pleasure,  that  had  made  him  what  he  was! 
How  he  envied  this  fisherman  his  life  of  sun  and  sea, 
and  his  untroubled  youth,  and  his  unspoiled  body! 

"You  take  too  little  at  a  time,"  laughed  the  fisher 
man.  He  sat  up  to  scoop  out  great  handfuls  of  sand, 
which  he  threw  over  the  painter's  body  until  it  was 
quite  buried.  Then  he  heaped  a  mound  over  him 
self,  and  looked  inquiringly  at  the  painter.  "  I  know 
by  your  skin  that  you  are  not  of  my  mestiere.  But 
people  in  Venice  do  many  things.  What  is  your 
trade?" 

The  painter  felt  more  comfortable  under  the  sand, 
and  the  unsuspecting  "ti"  of  the  dialect  touched  him 
again. 


THE  BATHERS  157 

"My  mestiere  is  to  paint,"  he  said.  "I  make  pic 
tures." 

"Ah,  that  is  a  nice  trade!  My  cousin  is  on  one  of 
the  Chioggia  steamers,  and  he  makes  pictures  of  the 
bragozzi  when  he  has  taken  the  tickets.  You  should 
see  how  beautiful  they  are.  Do  you  paint  bragozzi?" 

"Yes,  and  other  things:  houses,  and  gardens,  and 
sometimes  people." 

"  It  must  be  very  difficult.  Did  you  have  someone 
to  show  you  how?  " 

"Yes,"  answered  the  painter  gravely.  He  thought 
of  New  York,  and  Paris,  and  the  great  galleries. 

"Ah!  That  is  different.  My  cousin  says  faces 
are  very  hard,  unless  you  have  a  master.  But  he 
does  bragozzi  well  because  he  knows  all  about  them. 
His  father  builds  them.  He  sold  one  once  for  ten 
francs.  Do  you  sell  yours?  " 

"  Sometimes.  But  I  paint  a  great  many  more  than 
I  sell." 

"So  does  my  cousin.  He  gives  them  to  people  to 
hang  in  their  houses.  And  in  the  shops  he  buys  more 
cheaply  if  he  gives  a  bragozzo.  Do  you  do  anything 
else?" 

It  was  evident  that  the  fisherman's  conception  of 
the  picture  market  was  based  on  the  sale  effected 
by  his  relative,  and  that  his  deductions  regarding  the 
painter's  income  were  therefore  not  dazzling. 

The  painter  was  pleased.  He  had  feared  lest  a 
breach  separate  him  and  his  companion  too  early  in 
their  relations. 


158  THE   BATHERS 

"No,"  he  confessed.  "I  don't  know  how  to  do 
anything  else." 

The  fisherman  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 

"But  who  knows?"  he  pursued  encouragingly. 
"If  you  do  nothing  else  perhaps  you  will  come  to 
paint  big  pictures  with  gold  frames — like  the  ones 
under  the  procuratie  in  the  Piazza  San  Marco.  My 
cousin  says  the  artists  who  paint  those  are  signori. 
Then  it  will  be  a  trade!  I  shall  never  be  a  signer  at 
mine.  Do  you  know  how  long  it  takes  me  to  earn 
ten  francs?" 

The  painter  remembered  how  often  he  had  seen 
fishermen  in  their  long  brown  stockings  and  wooden 
shoes  before  the  brilliant  windows  of  the  Piazza. 
Never  before  had  he  conceived  of  them  otherwise 
than  as  a  picturesque  foil  to  the  glitter  of  civilisation. 

"No,"  he  replied.  "But  your  mestiere  is  better 
than  mine.  It  keeps  you  out  of  doors;  and  what  you 
do  is  necessary  to  people  more  than  what  I  do." 

"Ma/  It  is  a  pleasure  to  be  on  the  sea  in  a  good 
wind.  I  would  not  like  to  be  shut  up  in  a  shop,  or 
anything  like  that.  But  we  make  so  little.  And  the 
winter!  Sometimes  we  do  not  even  catch  enough  to 
eat.  You  can  make  a  picture  whenever  you  want, 
but  I  can't  catch  a  fish  whenever  I  want!" 

"Yes,  but  you  can  eat  your  fish  when  you  do  catch 
him,  while  my  picture  is  no  good  to  me  unless  I  sell 
it.  I  can't  eat  it.  And  it  isn't  the  kind  of  thing  that 
everybody  wants  to  buy,  like  a  fish." 

"That  is  so.    But  if  people  don't  like  your  picture 


THE   BATHERS  159 

you  can  ask  them  what  they  do  like,  and  sit  down 
and  paint  it  for  them.  Ecco!  And  in  the  winter  you 
can  stay  comfortably  by  the  hearth  in  the  kitchen, 
and  make  your  pictures  of  boats  and  flowers  and  sum 
mer  and  what  else  do  I  know,  while  outside  it  snows. 
But  I  have  to  go  into  the  sea  to  get  my  fish,  if  I  get 
shipwrecked  for  it." 

The  painter  smiled,  still  envying  the  strong  brown 
body  buried  in  the  sand  beside  him.  And  then  he 
suddenly  asked: 

"Have  you  ever  been  shipwrecked?" 

"Only  once,"  answered  the  fisherman,  as  if  it 
were  an  every-day  matter. 

"Tell  me  about  it,"  demanded  the  painter  eagerly, 
turning  on  his  elbow  to  eye  this  person  who  had  been 
through  shipwrecks  and  thought  nothing  of  it. 

"Ma!  I  was  small  then,"  began  the  fisherman 
apologetically,  as  if  he  would  be  less  awkward  now. 
"It  was  in  my  grandfather's  bragozzo,  one  night  in 
March.  We  were  blown  on  to  the  Punta  dei  Sab- 
bioni,  and  the  boat  broke  in  two."  He  stopped  as  if 
there  were  nothing  more  to  say. 

"  Well,  what  happened?  How  did  you  get  ashore?  " 

"God  knows,"  replied  the  fisherman.  "We  fell 
into  the  water,  and  after  a  while  I  woke  up  with  men 
rubbing  me.  My  grandfather  was  there,  too.  My 
father  and  my  brother  were  drowned." 

"And  then?" 

"What  was  there  to  do  then?    We  went  home." 

The  picture  of  this  common  little  seashore  drama 


160  THE  BATHERS 

flared  up  in  the  painter's  imagination.  He  was  im 
patient  that  it  should  be  told  him  so  barely.  He 
wanted  a  hundred  details,  and  he  could  not  think 
how  to  bring  them  out. 

"What  did  your  mother  do?"  he  asked,  desperate. 

"What  do  women  do?    She  cried." 

"Did  they  find  your  father  and  brother?" 

"My  father,  yes;  but  not  my  brother.  This  makes 
one  feel  sleepy  after  being  in  the  water,  doesn't  it?  " 
He  closed  his  eyes,  turning  a  little  his  head  from  the 
sun. 

The  painter  stared.  In  the  life  back  there  among 
the  sculptured  palaces  these  were  things  read,  things 
far  away  as  Olympus  and  the  Crusades — not  things 
seen.  He  felt  like  a  child  in  the  presence  of  one  who 
has  come  back  scarred  from  the  wars. 

Feeling  the  power  of  eyes  upon  him,  the  fisherman 
finally  opened  his  own. 

"How  warm  it  is  here,  eh?  It  is  better  than  that 
time  at  the  Sabbioni.  Ee-ee  that  was  cold!"  He 
drew  up  his  shoulders  as  if  to  shiver,  and  the  sand 
ran  from  him  in  rivulets.  "I  love  the  summer.  I 
wish  it  would  never  end.  We  often  come  to  this  same 
place  to  pull  in  our  nets;  but  it  is  not  always  so  nice 
as  this." 

The  painter  was  full  of  curiosity  about  a  life  to 
him  so  romantic. 

"Do  you  come  here  in  a  bragozzo?"  he  asked,  with 
the  respect  due  to  a  superior,  fearful  of  offending  by 
too  many  questions. 


THE  BATHERS  161 

"Oh,  no,"  answered  the  fisherman.  "It  is  too 
shallow.  We  come  in  a  caorlina,  about  ten  of  us, 
and  plant  the  nets,  and  afterwards  drag  them  up  on 
the  sand." 

"Oh,  yes!"  cried  the  painter.  "I  have  seen  it  at 
Sant'  Elisabetta — three  or  four  men  hauling  at  each 
rope,  and  then  the  net  squirming  with  fish!  And 
afterwards  they  beach  the  boats,  and  build  fires  on 
the  sand,  and  have  their  breakfast."  He  had  often 
sketched  the  bare-legged  men  and  boys  tugging  at 
the  ropes,  and  had  thought  how  good  their  fresh  fish 
and  polenta  must  be  in  the  morning  air  on  the  edge 
of  the  sea. 

"Yes,  we  go  there  often.  But  the  nets  are  not  al 
ways  squirming  with  fish.  Sometimes  we  get  nothing 
but  crabs,  cast  after  cast." 

"Do  you  anything  else  besides  go  in  the  caorlina?" 
asked  the  painter. 

"Hoo-oo!"  exclaimed  the  fisherman  in  a  high  sing 
ing  interjection,  with  an  amused  smile.  "  I  go  oftener 
in  my  uncle's  bragozzo.  We  have  none,  because  ours 
was  lost  when  my  father  was  drowned  and  we  have 
never  been  able  to  get  another.  They  cost  more  than 
the  painted  ones!  We  generally  leave  in  the  after 
noon  and  stay  out  all  night,  so  as  to  get  the  fish  to 
the  Rialto  early  in  the  morning.  That  is  good — to 
lie  on  the  deck  after  the  nets  are  down,  and  watch 
the  stars  playing  behind  the  sail,  and  the  light-houses 
here  and  at  Cavallino  winking  their  eyes.  And  then 
to  run  in  when  the  sun  comes  up  all  wet  and  cool  out 


162  THE  BATHERS 

of  the  sea,  and  the  wind  begins  to  blow!  But  in  win 
ter  it  is  another  affair,  and  when  there  are  storms. 
Two  or  three  boats  are  lost  in  every  Bora." 

The  painter's  humility  grew,  as  he  inwardly  com 
pared  the  vicissitudes  of  studio  life  with  this  adven 
turing  upon  the  deep. 

"But  you  would  rather  live  on  the  water  than  in  a 
shop,  didn't  you  say?" 

"Ma!  Now,  yes — when  the  nights  are  a  delizia 
and  we  have  enough  to  eat.  But  in  winter!  Then  it 
is  another  story."  He  propped  himself  up  on  his 
elbows  and  began  excavating  a  reservoir,  into  which 
the  water  rose  slowly.  "No,  I  would  not  like  to 
be  in  a  shop.  But  I  would  like  to  be  a  signor, 
and  have  plenty  of  money  without  working,  and  eat 
meat  every  day,  and  in  the  winter  always  have 
a  fire  in  the  kitchen,  and  go  as  often  as  I  liked 
to  the  inn.  And  I  would  like  to  go  to  other  places, 
to  see  Florence,  and  all  the  countries  in  the  world. 
That  is  what  I  would  like  the  best  of  all.  Sometimes 
steamers  pass  us  in  the  sea  at  night,  with  lamps  in 
all  their  little  round  windows,  and  people  singing  on 
the  deck — high  over  the  top  of  our  mast — and  it 
makes  me  sad.  They  pass  so  quickly,  with  the  water 
white  behind  them,  and  their  lights  grow  small  and 
small  in  the  dark,  and  disappear.  Where  do  they 
go,  the  ships?  I  want  to  know,  and  go  with  them 
to  the  countries  at  the  end  of  the  sea."  He  looked 
across  the  painter  toward  the  breakwater,  where 
the  sails  of  a  pilot  boat  were  bobbing  up  and  down 


THE  BATHERS  163 

and  where,  far  away,  the  sea  ran  blue  to  the  sky. 
"But  I  never  shall.  I  have  to  catch  fish  for  my 
family.  They  would  not  have  enough  if  I  went 
away.  .  .  A  boy  I  knew  went  to  America,  and 
now  he  sends  home  money  to  his  mother — a 
great  deal.  He  won  a  terno  at  the  lottery,  enough  to 
pay  for  the  steamer  and  then  to  keep  him  till  he 
found  a  place.  But  I  am  not  lucky.  And  even  if  I 
could  go  I  could  not  take  my  wife,  and  my  mother 
might  have  nothing  to  eat  long  before  I  could  send 
her  money.  They  speak  another  language  there— 
and  many  things.  Have  you  been  to  America?" 
He  asked  it  nonchalantly,  tracing  arabesques  in  the 
damp  sand  of  his  reservoir,  much  as  one  might  in 
quire,  "Have  you  been  to  the  moon?" 

"Yes,"  answered  the  painter,  absently,  "I  have 
been  to  America."  He  lay  on  his  back,  his  hands 
under  his  head,  looking  into  the  sea.  The  gleam  of 
its  blue  was  curiously  watered  by  ripples  of  shadow 
sweeping  across  it  in  shades  from  purple  to  the  pallor 
of  the  sky.  He  wished  that  all  evils  were  so  calcul 
able  as  winter;  and  he  was  touched  by  the  simplicity 
of  these  ambitions,  by  the  poetry  of  the  lighted  ships. 
He  had  not  thought  of  a  wife,  the  fisherman  was  so 
young.  After  all,  had  he  not  everything? 

The  fisherman  turned  instantly,  forgetting  his 
arabesques. 

"You  have  been  to  America?"  He  sat  up,  edging 
nearer  the  painter  and  looking  down  at  him  with  a 
strange  and  new  curiosity.  "You  have  been  to 


164  THE  BATHERS 

America!  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  before?  What  is 
it  like?  " 

The  painter  was  sorry.  But  he  looked  up  at  the 
eager  face  bent  upon  him,  and  he  smiled. 

"Oh,  it  is  very  much  like  this.  There  are  fields 
0,nd  trees,  and  rivers  run  into  the  sea,  and  there  is  a 
sun  every  day,  and  sometimes  there  is  a  moon  at 
night."  ' 

"A  sun  every  day!"  broke  in  the  fisherman. 
"Sometimes  there  is  none  for  a  month  here!  I  would 
like  that.  Is  it  like  Venice — with  palazzi,  and  gon 
dolas,  and  the  campanile?" 

"No,"  answered  the  painter,  "it  is  not  like  Venice. 
There  are  no  gondolas  and  no  campanile;  and  the 
palazzi  are  all  new;  and  they  don't  have  four,  five, 
six  floors,  but  fifteen,  twenty,  twenty-five." 

"They  must  be  as  high  as  the  campanile,  then! 
And  new!  In  Venice  all  the  houses  are  so  old.  I  like 
new  things.  Don't  you?  " 

"Well — not  so  much,"  replied  the  painter.  "It  is 
hard  to  tell  which  of  them  will  last.  Old  things  are 
ones  that  were  good  enough  to  last." 

"Oh!"  said  the  fisherman.  "What  are  the  people 
like?" 

"The  people?  They  are  like  you  and  me.  Only 
perhaps  they  don't  like  to  lie  all  the  afternoon  in  the 
sun,  the  way  you  and  I  do,"  he  added,  stretching  his 
arms  out  wide  in  the  sand  and  following  a  gull  into 
the  sky. 

"Are  they  good?"  pursued  the  fisherman.    Good- 


THE  BATHERS  165 

ness  as  applied  to  character  has  come  in  Italian  to 
mean  compliance  rather  than  the  sterner  moral  qual 
ities  expected  in  the  North. 

"Well,  perhaps  they  are  more  apt  to  be  'bad'  if 
one  is  from  another  country.  I  think  it  is  because 
they  do  not  understand.  They  speak  another  lan 
guage,  you  know." 

"Can  you  understand  it?" 

"M-m-m,  generally." 

"  Say  some ! "  demanded  the  fisherman.  And  after 
it  he  required  a  translation  of  the  painter's  phrase. 
"It  is  strange,"  he  commented.  "When  you  say 
those  words  I  understand  nothing;  but  you  are  saying 
the  same  things  that  we  say  in  Italian!" 

"Yes,"  said  the  painter.  "They  do  not  tell  you 
new  things  in  other  countries.  At  first  it  sounds  dif 
ferent,  and  then  you  find  out  that  it  is  really  the 
same.  .  ." 

"Why,  have  you  been  to  many  of  them?" 

"I  have  been  to  some  others." 

"Tell  me  about  them.    Are  they  like  America?" 

"Yes,  on  the  whole.  Only  some  are  a  little  hotter, 
some  are  a  little  colder.  Then  there  are  countries 
where  the  people  are  all  black,  you  know — but  really 
black,  like  your  head.  Or  yellow,  or  red.  There  are 
countries,  too,  where  the  men  dress  like  women;  and 
others  where  they  go  like  us,  without  any  clothes  at 
all.  And  I  went  once  to  one  where  it  was  light  at 
night." 

The  fisherman  edged  a  little  closer,  his  eyes  fast- 


166  THE  BATHERS 

ened  on  the  painter  as  if  to  win  the  secret  of  his 
strangeness  and  his  fortune. 

"If  you  have  been  so  far  you  must  have  been  on 
a  steamer,"  he  uttered  slowly. 

"Yes." 

"  I  would  like  to  go  on  a  steamer,  a  big  one,  espe 
cially  at  night.  Did  you  ever  put  your  head  through 
one  of  the  little  round  windows  where  the  lights  are, 
and  look  down  at  the  dark  sea,  and  find  a  bragozzo?  " 

"Yes,"  answered  the  painter,  "and  I  have  seen 
the  light  from  the  little  windows  touch  the  sails,  and 
the  faces  of  the  men  looking  up." 

"And  then  you  passed  and  left  them  in  the  night. 
How  I  wish  I  could  have  done  that !  But  I  was  down 
in  the  bragozzo,  and  you  were  up  in  the  great  lighted 
ship,  going  to  the  countries  at  the  end  of  the  sea." 

The  wistfulness  in  his  face  hurt  the  painter,  to 
whom  the  sense  of  the  superiority  of  that  perfect 
body,  and  of  the  simple  life  from  which  it  had  won  its 
beauty  and  its  strength,  was  keener  than  ever.  He 
had  meant  only  to  entertain  his  companion,  not  to 
sharpen  in  him  the  sharpness  of  desire.  How  could 
he  put  convincingly  what  he  really  felt?  But  the 
fisherman  went  on,  his  face  hanging  almost  over  the 
painter's. 

"  Have  you  been  to  all  the  countries  in  the  world?  " 
he  asked. 

"  Oh,  no !  Only  to  a  few  of  them.  And  I  don't  care 
to  see  the  rest." 

"Why  not?    If  I  were  like  you,  and  had  no  one 


THE   BATHERS  167 

else  to  think  about,  and  could  do  my  trade  in  any 
country,  I  would  go  to  see  them  all." 

"But  why?  You  do  not  see  new  things  when  you 
travel.  It  is  not  worth  while  going  on  long  journeys 
to  see  people  who  wear  different  clothes  from  ours, 
or  have  a  different  skin.  They  are  always  really  the 
same.  They  are  all  born  in  the  same  way,  and  they 
all  love  and  hate  in  the  same  way,  and  they  all  work 
to  get  bread  and  fish,  and  then  they  all  die.  These 
are  the  real  things,  the  old  things  that  people  hide 
under  their  customs  and  their  languages.  You  can 
see  them  here  as  well  as  anywhere  else." 

"  It  will  be  so,"  said  the  fisherman  humbly.  "  You 
know  better  than  I.  But  one  gets  tired  of  just  the 
same  thing  every  day,  every  week,  every  month, 
every  year.  It  is  like  a  week  without  Sunday.  You 
have  had  your  festa,  but  I  never  had  mine." 

"What  you  call  festa  was  every  day  to  me,  and  it 
did  not  make  me  happy." 

"Then  I  wish  I  could  have  had  your  every  day." 
He  glanced  out  to  sea  a  moment,  where  the  fishing 
boats  were  tacking  about  as  if  to  no  purpose  but  to 
show  off  their  butterfly  wings.  "  Have  you  ever  been 
hungry?"  he  asked,  looking  down  at  the  painter 
again. 

"No."  The  painter  crushed  a  temptation  to  play 
with  double  meanings,  and  was  ashamed  to  count 
the  few  dinners  deferred  that  he  could  remember. 

"I  have,"  said  the  fisherman.  "I  have  gone  back 
to  Malamocco  on  a  winter  morning  after  a  night  in 


168  THE   BATHERS 

the  bragozzo,  and  I  have  had  to  show  my  empty 
hands  to  my  wife  who  was  waiting  at  the  door.  And 
I  have  hunted  in  the  fog  for  the  Porto  di  Lido,  when 
we  tacked  up  and  down  outside,  afraid  to  run  in, 
until  we  were  so  cold  and  tired  that  I  hoped  the  boat 
would  go  down.  And  I  have  seen  my  father's  dead 
body  washed  up  by  the  sea.  These  are  the  things 
that  I  have  seen.  But  you — 

The  painter  sprang  out  of  his  lazy  posture. 

•"What  are  the  things  I  have  seen  to  those!"  he 
cried.  "What  do  I  know  of  the  world,  compared  to 
you?  You  have  seen  more  of  life  here  in  Malamocco 
than  I  ever  did  in  all  the  strange  cities  I  have  seen! 
It  is  nothing  to  know  how  men  say  'Good-morning' 
in  other  languages  or  how  they  look  in  foreign  coats, 
if  you  know  what  they  say  on  the  decks  of  sinking 
ships,  and  how  they  look  when  they  are  washed  up 
dead  by  the  sea!" 

For  a  moment  the  fisherman  was  silent,  surprised 
by  the  other's  vehemence.  Then  he  said: 

"Perhaps  so.  But  what  good  does  it  do  me  to 
know  these  things?  I  would  rather  have  your  mes- 
tiere.  It  is  not  so  monotonous.  It  is  not  so  hard. 
It  is  not  so  sad — 

The  painter  jumped  impatiently  to  his  feet.  He 
wanted  to  prove  in  some  palpable  way  the  inferiority 
of  his  manner  of  life,  so  that  the  fisherman  could  not 
help  being  convinced. 

"Get  up!"  he  cried.    "Wrestle  with  me!" 

"What  shall  I  wrestle  with  you  for?"  asked  the 


THE   BATHERS  169 

fisherman  in  astonishment,  sitting  back  with  his 
hands  propped  behind  him  in  the  sand.  "  I  want  to 
talk  about  these  things." 

"You  shall  talk  about  these  things  afterward," 
laughed  the  painter.  "Now  I  want  to  see  how  easily 
I  can  throw  you.  Get  up!" 

The  fisherman  obeyed  slowly  and  stood,  loose- 
jointed,  waiting  to  see  what  the  other  would  do.  The 
painter  suddenly  clinched  him,  at  which  the  fisher 
man's  muscles  reacted  instinctively.  There  was  a 
short  sharp  tussle;  and  the  painter  found  himself  on 
his  back  in  the  sand,  panting,  the  other's  knee  on  his 
chest. 

"You  see?"  demanded  the  painter. 

The  fisherman  rolled  down  in  the  sand  beside  him. 

"Excuse  me,"  he  said.  "When  I  felt  you  catch 
me  I  didn't  think,  and  I  put  you  down." 

The  painter  laughed. 

"Now  you  see  how  much  better  your  trade  is  than 
mine?" 

"No.  What  have  trades  to  do  with  it?  One  of  us 
had  to  go  under.  Another  time  you  would  probably 
beat  me.  Let's  try  again.  Come!" 

He  started  to  get  up,  but  the  painter  pulled  him 
back. 

"You  know  perfectly  well  that  I  couldn't  beat  you 
if  I  tried  all  day!  Look  at  that!"  He  held  out  his 
arm  this  time,  and  made  the  fisherman  do  the  same. 
"And  look  at  that!"  He  stretched  a  lean  white  leg 
beside  the  muscular  brown  one  of  the  fisherman. 


170  THE  BATHERS 

The  comparison  made  him  wince,  as  he  marked  again 
how  toil  and  peril  had  only  wrought  on  the  other's 
body  like  surpassing  sculpture.  He  went  on :  "  There 
is  no  reason  why  I  should  not  be  as  strong  and  as 
good  to  look  at  as  you.  I  am  perhaps  no  older,  and 
I  am  not  ill,  and  I  have  never  been  hurt.  Then  why 
are  we  so  different?  It  is  just  this  very  thing— the 
difference  between  our  mestieri.  For  when  you  were 
pulling  up  nets  on  the  sand,  I  was  making  little  paper 
sunsets  for  people  to  buy — when  they  could  have 
new  and  better  ones  every  day  for  nothing,  by  look 
ing  out  of  the  window!  And  when  you  were  watching 
the  stars  play  behind  your  sail,  I  was  sitting  in  stuffy 
rooms.  Lamps  are  not  so  good  for  one  as  stars!  And 
when  you  were  fighting  the  sea  in  storms,  I  was  run 
ning  about  the  world  trying  to  find  some  new  thing. 
And  so  you  are  what  you  are,  and  I  am  this!"  He 
looked  down  at  himself  and  laughed  bitterly. 

"That  may  be'/  said  the  fisherman,  puzzled  and 
a  little  embarrassed.  "But  what  if  I  am  strong? 
You  are  strong  enough.  You  have  not. been  pre 
vented  from  enjoying.  Was  it  worth  while  for  me  to 
do  all  those  things  just  to  be  able  to  put  you  down? 
What  difference  does  it  make  to  me?  I  would  rather 
have  been  in  your  place." 

"No!  Outside  things  cannot  make  you  happy, 
unless  they  fit  with  something  inside.  And  the 
things  which  make  happiness  are  so  few  and  so  sim 
ple  that  anybody  can  find  them — like  love,  and  sun 
shine.  That  is  all  the  good  my  journeys  have  done 


THE  BATHERS  171 

me — to  teach  me  this.  I  know  these  things,  but 
you  have  them."  He  stopped  abruptly. 

The  fisherman  looked  at  him  a  long  time  saying 
nothing.  When  finally  he  spoke  it  was  humbly,  as 
one  lower  to  one  higher. 

"What  you  say  must  be  true,  because  you  under 
stand  and  I  do  not.  Still — I  wish  I  could  'be  once  on 
a  lighted  ship  at  night,  and  go  to  one  of  the  countries 
at  the  end  of  the  sea.  I  have  never  been,  and  you 
have.  .  ." 

At  first  the  painter  did  not  answer,  his  eyes  on 
the  bronzed  figure  beside  him.  But  then  he  smiled, 
curiously. 

"Look!"  he  said.  "We  are  all  covered  with  the 
sand  of  the  sea.  We  must  brush  it  off  and  go  back 
into  the  world." 


RETARDED  BOMBS 


FOR  the  land's  sake!  If  there  isn't  Jonas  Lane! " 
burst  out  Miss  Cockerill  irrelevantly. 
She  so  far  forgot  the  respect  due  to  a  min 
ister's  wife,  and  that  reserve  which  should  be  the 
portion  of  a  maiden  lady,  as  to  forsake  her  chair  for 
the  window.  Peering  discreetly  through  her  lattice 
of  geraniums,  she  regarded  with  tense  interest  the 
actions  of  a  gentleman  who  was  emerging  from  a 
buggy  in  front  of  her  neighbour's  house.  This  person, 
after  securing  his  horse  to  a  ringed  post,  made  his 
way  with  some  deliberation  toward  the  door. 

"He's  taken  on  flesh,"  pursued  Miss  Cockerill. 
She  drew  a  trifle  to  one  side  in  order  to  share  her 
opportunity  with  her  visitor,  but  losing  nothing  of 
what  it  was  vouchsafed  her  to  behold  during  the  in 
terval  between  the  pull  at  the  bell  and  the  opening 
of  the  door.  "She  keeps  him  waitin',  same  as  she's 
done  for  twenty  years,"  commented  the  spectator. 

The  door  at  which  he  sued  closed  behind  the  ex 
pectant  gentleman  who  had  "taken  on  flesh."  And 
as  Miss  Cockerill's  most  piercing  gaze  failed  to  pene 
trate  that  exasperating  barrier,  she  turned  apologet 
ically: 

172 


RETARDED  BOMBS  173 

"You  see,  Mis'  Webster,  I've  known  Martha 
Waring  ever  since  we  were  that  high."  She  indicated 
an  altitude  above  the  floor  about  equal  to  that  of  an 
ambitious  kitten.  "  She  was  born  in  that  very  house, 
and  I  was  born  in  this,  and  now  we're  the  only  ones 
left  of  our  folks.  So  it  seems  like  I  knew  more  about 
her  than  I  did  about  myself." 

It  is  to  be  feared  that  Mrs.  Webster,  lately  come 
from  more  impersonal  atmospheres  to  that  of  Acker- 
ton,  made  small  effort  to  discourage  the  revelations 
which  it  not  seldom  befell  her  to  hear.  On  the  con 
trary,  she  made  it  a  point  to  regard  them  as  among 
the  roses  which  garnish  the  rather  thorny  path  of 
young  divines  and  their  wives. 

"A  friendship  like  that  is  charming,"  she  remarked. 
"It  is  not  many  that  survive  the  perils  of  childhood. 
You  are  both  fortunate  in  having  such  constant 
friends." 

"H'm!  It's  a  pity  she  don't  see  it!"  exclaimed 
Miss  Cockerill  somewhat  grimly.  "  Like  as  not  she'll 
tell  Jonas  Lane  to  go  back  out  West." 

"Jonas  Lane?"  echoed  Mrs.  Webster  with  diplo 
matic  interrogation.  "Mr.  Lane?  I  don't  seem  to 
remember  that  name." 

"No,  you  wouldn't,"  agreed  Miss  Cockerill 
promptly.  "His  family's  all  dead,  like  the  rest  of 
ours,  and  he  went  away  twenty  years  ago — after  he'd 
proposed  to  Martha  the  first  time." 

"0!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Webster  with  discreet  non 
committal.  But  there  was  that  in  the  regard 


174  RETARDED  BOMBS 

she  cast  upon  Miss  Cockerill  which  did  not  deter 
that  lady  from  continuing: 

"  He's  only  been  back  twice  since.  That  was  when 
he  proposed  to  her  the  second  and  third  times.  Now 
I  s'pose  he's  doing  it  the  fourth." 

She  looked  out  of  the  window  again,  at  the  house 
in  which  so  momentous  an  event  should  be  taking 
place.  The  house  gave  no  hint,  however,  of  being 
the  abode  of  passion.  It  stood  back  in  its  maple- 
shaded  yard,  more  trim  and  respectable  in  its  clap- 
boarded  dove-colour  than  a  thing  of  nature,  but  as 
indifferent  to  human  palpitations.  The  eyes  of  both 
ladies  devoted  to  it  an  interval  of  silence.  Then 
Miss  Cockerill  turned  once  more  to  her  companion: 

"I  don't  see  how  she  can  refuse  him  this  time. 
You  see  the  first  time  she  had  her  father  an'  mother 
and  Anne.  Her  father  was  real  sickly,  and  Anne 
took  after  him.  They  both  lay  abed  for  years.  Fath 
er  Waring  did  because  he  fell  from  the  hay  loft.  But 
Anne  did  because  her  father  did,  I  guess.  Anyhow, 
when  Jonas  first  proposed  to  Martha,  twenty  years 
ago,  she  said  she  liked  him  well  enough  but  that  she 
couldn't  leave  her  folks  while  they  needed  her.  So 
Jonas  went  out  West,  he  was  that  provoked.  He 
did  mighty  well,  too.  He  went  into  lumber,  and  he's 
a  rich  man  now.  But  he  didn't  forget  Martha,  for  all 
that.  He  was  always  as  faithful  as  you'd  want  to 
see — from  the  time  he  was  a  boy  and  we  all  went  to 
school  together." 

Miss  Cockerill  let  her  eye  return  to  the  dove-col- 


RETARDED   BOMBS  175 

oured  house  with  a  reminiscent  light  which  quick 
ened  Mrs.  Webster's  interest. 

"  He  asked  me  to  keep  him  informed  of  what  went 
on  here.  He  wasn't  a  great  hand  at  writin',  and 
Martha  wasn't  either.  And  so  after  her  father  died 
he  came  back.  She  told  him  she  wasn't  ready, 
though.  An'  'twas  the  same  when  Anne  went.  Mar 
tha  said  she  liked  him  just  as  much  as  ever,  and 
maybe  more,  but  that  her  duty  was  with  her  mother. 
Jonas  said  then  he'd  marry  her  mother,  too.  He  was 
always  a  great  hand  at  his  jokes,  was  Jonas.  But 
Martha  said  her  mother  wanted  to  spend  her  last 
days  at  home,  and  so  Jonas  had  to  go  off  the  third 
time.  Seems  like  Martha  knew  her  own  mind  better 
than  most  folks." 

Again  Miss  Cockerill  paused  a  moment  and  con 
templated  the  fateful  grey  house. 

"That  was  twelve  years  ago,"  she  resumed.  "And 
it's  hardly  a  fortnight  since  Mis'  Waring  was  laid  in 
her  grave,  and  here  comes  Jonas  knocking  again  at 
Martha's  door.  Guess  she'll  have  to  let  him  in  this 
time.  Anyway,  I'll  know  as  soon  as  anybody.  Jonas 
always  promised  that  he'd  tell  me  first." 

It  seemed  to  Mrs.  Webster  that  she  found  a 
certain  parallel  between  the  decently  painted  clap 
boards  to  which  her  attention  had  thus  been  drawn 
and  the  somewhat  inscrutable  exterior  of  her  hostess. 
There  was  more  within  than  appeared  on  the  surface. 
As  for  Miss  Cockerill,  her  gaze  had  an  intensity 
which  walls  of  brass  could  scarcely  have  withstood. 


176  RETARDED  BOMBS 

And  as  if  the  house  could  keep  its  secret  from  her  no 
longer,  Jonas  Lane  suddenly  emerged  upon  the  ve 
randa. 

"He's  coming  over  now,  I  do  believe!"  exclaimed 
Miss  Cockerill  excitedly,  endeavouring  to  make  the 
most  of  the  window  without  appearing  from  the  out 
side  to  do  so. 

Jonas,  however,  strode  down  the  path,  untied  his 
horse,  threw  the  halter  into  the  back  of  the  buggy, 
got  in  with  much  less  deliberation  than  he  had  got 
out,  and  drove  rapidly  away. 

Miss  Cockerill  watched  the  buggy  until  it  dis 
appeared  in  the  long  elm  vista.  Then,  after  another 
glance  at  the  grey  house,  she  turned  to  her  visitor. 

"  Well,  I  declare ! "  she  burst  forth.  "  If  she  hasn't 
refused  him  again!" 


When  Jonas  Lane  knocked  for  the  fourth  time 
upon  Martha  Waring's  door  his  expectancy  was  a 
quaint  blend  of  eagerness  and  humour. 

"Seems  like  things  look  more  spruce  than  they  did 
last  time,"  he  thought,  eyeing  the  polished  knocker, 
the  panels  of  the  door,  the  slightly  inclined  planks  of 
the  veranda,  and  the  flagstones  of  the  path  running 
back  to  the  kitchen.  "That  there  hemlock's  grown 
a  pile,  too.  They  planted  that  'twixt  last  time  and 
the  time  before,  in  place  of  the  old  pine  that  was 
struck  by  lightnin'.  Marthy  never  kept  me  so  long 
though,"  he  murmured  impatiently. 


RETARDED  BOMBS  177 

Then  the  edge  of  the  door  began  receding,  very 
gently;  and  when  it  reached  a  point  which  might 
afford  the  possibility  of  ingress  or  egress  to  a  pet 
animal  a  lady's  head  approached  the  aperture.  It 
was  Miss  Waring,  come  to  parley  through  the 
postern. 

"Why,  Jonas,  is  that  you?"  she  exclaimed,  a  faint 
glow  suddenly  brightening  her  countenance. 

"Same  old  penny!"  rejoined  that  worthy,  putting 
forth  his  hand. 

At  the  sight  of  this  friendly  member  Miss  Waring 
enlarged  the  aperture  over  which  she  stood  guard 
and  drew  her  visitor  in.  Not  only  was  it  the  proper 
and  Christian  thing  to  do,  but  she  had  a  disturbing 
intuition  of  neighbourly  eyes.  Closing  the  door  as 
gently  as  she  had  opened  it,  she  led  the  way  into  the 
parlour,  raised  the  shades,  and  took  a  seat  opposite 
her  suitor. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  while  Miss  Waring  had 
received  no  immediate  warning  of  this  visit — Jonas 
being,  as  Miss  Cockerill  had  intimated  to  Mrs.  Web 
ster,  no  great  hand  at  writing — she  had  nevertheless 
been  led  by  experience  to  entertain  a  premonition 
of  Jonas'  arrival  not  long  after  any  change  in  her 
own  family  circle.  And  on  this  occasion  she  was 
more  uncertain  of  herself  than  she  had  ever  been. 
For  the  last  ditch  was  lost;  and  now  the  invader 
threatened  her  very  person  she  knew  not  whether  to 
surrender  or  to  withstand  till  the  last  drop  of  blood. 
She  wished  that  she  had  had  more  time  to  think. 


178  RETARDED  BOMBS 

It  was  evident  that  Jonas,  too,  as  he  sat  twirling 
his  hat  and  gazing  from  his  hostess  to  her  furniture, 
felt  a  little  less  than  his  customary  assurance. 

It  was  the  woman,  however,  who  relieved  the  situ 
ation  by  uttering: 

"  I  hope  you're  feeling  well,  Jonas.  You're  looking 
just  the  same  as  ever/' 

" Thank  you,  Marthy,"  rejoined  her  interlocutor. 
You're  lookin'  just  about  the  same,  too;  but  I  hope 
you're  feelin'  different."  And  before  Miss  Waring 
could  recover  from  this  bold  attack,  Jonas  went  on: 
"You  know  I  ain't  no  hand  at  beatin'  about  the 
bush,  Marthy.  I  might  as  well  tell  you  here  and 
now  what  I've  come  for.  I  guess  you  know  well 
enough,  though,  without  my  tellin'.  You've  had 
chance  aplenty  to  learn  what  it  means  when  I  come 
here.  But  this  time  I  ain't  going  away  without 
ye.  Be  I  now,  Marthy?" 

He  rose  from  his  place  on  the  sofa  and  approached 
her.  But  then  he  stopped,  acutely  embarrassed.  His 
blind  desire  for  vicinity  had  no  definite  intent,  and 
he  did  not  know  just  what  to  do.  As  for  Martha,  she 
stretched  out  her  palms  like  a  barrier  before  her,  and 
gasped : 

"0,  Jonas!    Don't  say  such  things!" 

Unexpected  as  it  was,  that  gave  him  definiteness. 
Sitting  down  beside  the  lady  of  his  heart  Jonas  laid 
a  gnarled  finger  on  her  knee. 

"  I  know  it's  kind  of  unfair  to  come  on  ye  sudden 
like,  Martha,  just  after  you've  lost  your  mother. 


RETARDED   BOMBS  179 

But  if  anybody  kin  comfort  ye,  I'm  the  man  to  do  it. 
I  just  couldn't  wait  a  minute  longer.  I've  waited 
purty  long,  Marthy." 

Martha  brushed  away  the  audacious  finger,  and 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands  like  a  nymph 
at  bay. 

"0,  don't,  Jonas!"  she  moaned. 

Her  gentle  faun  made  no  further  attempt  at  vio 
lence,  but  looked  at  her  in  amazement. 

"Marthy!"  he  groaned:    "What  do  you  mean?" 

There  was  that  in  his  voice  which  at  last  compelled 
Martha  to  reply,  haltingly: 

"I  mean — Jonas — that  I — just  can't — go  back 
with  you!" 

Jonas  at  first  could  not  speak.  Then  he  said 
gravely: 

"You're  only  jokin'  and  beatin'  about  the  bush, 
Marthy.  It's  the  way  women  folks  have.  But 
what's  the  use  of  doin'  it  with  me?  You  can't  mean 
it.  Didn't  ye  always  tell  me  that  you  liked  me  real 
well,  and  that  when  there  was  nothin'  to  keep  ye 
you'd  come?" 

Martha  so  far  recovered  her  composure  as  to  let 
her  hands  resume  their  customary  position  in  her 
lap;  but  her  cheeks  and  her  voice  betrayed  the 
moral  stress  under  which  she  laboured. 

"  I  know  I  did,  Jonas,"  she  said.  "And  I  meant  it. 
But  somehow  it  seems  different,  now  the  time  has 
come.  I  do  like  you  real  well,  and  I  always  did.  But 
it  seems  like  I  couldn't  leave  this  old  house  where  I 


180  RETARDED  BOMBS 

was  born  and  where  air  my  people  died,  and  go  off 
among  strangers.  I  just  can't,  Jonas!" 

With  which  deliverance  she  raised  a  neatly  folded 
handkerchief  to  her  eyes,  and  held  it  there.  Poor 
Jonas  looked  on  with  the  double  helplessness  of  a 
man  before  a  woman's  tears,  and  of  a  lover  in  the 
face  of  his  mistress's  perversities.  Of  what  all  this 
could  mean  he  had  not  the  slightest  idea.  But  he 
felt  ill-used,  although  a  great  deference  put  him  in  a 
mood  of  concession. 

"But  you  promised,  Marthy,"  he  said  gently. 
"And  how  can  you  live  here  all  by  yourself?  Who 
will  look  out  for  you?" 

"I  know  I  promised,  Jonas,"  tearfully  murmured 
Miss  Waring;  "and  I  just  hate  to  go  back  on  my 
word.  But  it  comes  over  me  now  that  I  oughtn't  to 
have  promised — that  I  never  could  have  done  it. 
You  needn't  bother  about  my  living  alone,  though, 
I've  always  looked  out  for  people,  instead  of  their 
looking  out  for  me.  I  shouldn't  know  what  to 
do  in  a  strange  house,  with  everything  done  for 
me."' 

For  a  moment  Jonas  looked  lost.  But  then  he 
burst  out: 

"Why,  bless  your  heart,  Marthy,  that's  easy 
enough  to  fix !  You  needn't  go  away  and  have  people 
look  out  for  you  at  all.  You  can  stay  right  on  here, 
and  I'll  come  and  live  with  you,  instead  of  taking 
you  away,  and  then  you'll  still  have  somebody  to 
look  out  for!" 


RETARDED  BOMBS  181 

At  this  sudden  change  of  front  Miss  Waring  low 
ered  her  flag  of  truce  and  looked  at  the  enemy 
askance. 

"What  is  it,  Marthy?"  inquired  that  gentleman 
anxiously.  "  Won't  that  suit  ye?  " 

Evidently  Martha  had  never  entertained  such  a 
possibility.  And  of  this  she  presently  gave  verbal 
assurance,  in  a  tone  of  the  most  doubting. 

"I  never  thought  of  that,  Jonas,"  she  said  slowly. 
"It  would  seem  so  odd  to  live  here  and  have  a 
stranger  in  the  house." 

"A  stranger,  Marthy!"  expostulated  Jonas  pite- 
ously.  "I,  a  stranger!  And  whose  fault  is  it  if  I'm 
a  stranger  to  you?  But  never  mind  about  that,"  he 
added  hastily.  "Just  give  me  a  chance,  and  we'll 
get  acquainted  fast  enough!  Won't  ye,  Marthy — 
dear?"  He  uttered  the  last  word  timidly  and  drew 
nearer  his  love. 

This  lady  felt  her  heart  as  water  within  her.  In 
deed,  a  little  of  it  exuded  from  her  eyes,  to  the  further 
confusion  and  agony  of  Jonas  Lane. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Marthy?"  he  cried.  "For 
mercy's  sake  tell  me !  Heaven  knows  I  don't  want  to 
make  you  feel  bad!  I  only  want  to  make  you  happy 
and  to  be  happy  with  you — as  I've  looked  forward 
to  for  twenty  years." 

"I  know  it,  Jonas,"  conceded  the  lady  of  his 
dreams.  "And  I  hate  to  be  like  this.  But — it  would 
be  so  odd — so  odd!  And  if  you  came  here  J  s'pose 
we'd  have  to  be — married " 


182  RETARDED   BOMBS 

As  she  paused,  plucking  at  a  fold  of  her  skirt,  the 
wondering  Jonas  broke  in: 

"I  rather  guess  we'd  have  to,  Marthy." 

"  0  Jonas !  Don't ! "  supplicated  Miss  Waring  with 
an  agonised  blush.  "I  just  meant — that  I  could 
never  go  through  it — and  live." 

"How  do  you  mean,  Marthy?"  inquired  Jonas, 
utterly  dazed. 

"Why,  I  mean,"  explained  Miss  Waring  hesitant 
ly,  "that  there'd  have  to  be  a  dress.  And  I  never 
could  go  down  to  the  store  and  ask  to  see  white  satin, 
and  buy  ever  and  ever  so  many  yards  of  it,  and  take 
it  to  Hannah  Lee,  and  tell  her  to  make  me  up  a — a 
wedding  gown.  I  never  could  in  the  world.  Every 
body  would  know,  and  talk,  and  I  couldn't  stand  it." 

"I  s'pose  they'd  have  to  know,"  said  Jonas  apolo 
getically.  "There's  too  much  of  me  to  be  hid.  Is 
that  all?" 

"No,"  pursued  Martha,  relentlessly  implanting 
another  dart  in  her  lover's  bosom.  "There'd  have 
to  be  a  wedding.  And  I'll  do  a  good  deal  for  you, 
Jonas,  but  I'll  never  stand  up  with  you  before  the 
minister  and  have  everybody  whispering  about 
Martha  Waring  and  her  old  beau  Jonas  Lane,  and 
how  they've  got  married  at  last,  and  it's  a  pity  they 
didn't  do  it  afore." 

"It  is  a  pity,  Marthy,"  admitted  the  doleful  Jonas, 
"but- 

"That  isn't  the  worst,  though,"  continued  Mar 
tha,  to  whom  the  whole  grim  scene  unfolded  itself  in 


RETARDED  BOMBS  183 

its  entirety.  "The  worst  would  be  the  rice.  They'd 
throw  it  at  us  when  we  went  away,  and  the  people  on 
the  cars  would  see,  and  it  would  stick  in  our  clothes, 
and  roll  out  wherever  we  went,  and  everybody  would 
know,  and  laugh.  0  Jonas,  I  can't!  I'm  sorry,  but 
I  just  can't!" 

To  poor  Jonas  world  within  world  of  undreamt 
feminine  perversity  had  of  a  sudden  been  revealed. 
He  felt  as  one  bound  by  cobwebs.  But,  after  staring 
for  some  moments  in  silence  at  his  liege  lady,  he  ad 
dressed  her  again  the  word. 

"Marthy  Warin',"  he  asked  solemnly,  "would  you 
marry  me  if  you  could  do  it  without  rice,  and  with 
out  a  weddin'  dress,  and  without  anybody's  know- 
in'?" 

She  regarded  him  with  doubt. 

"  Seems  like  it  wouldn't  be  really  getting  married," 
she  objected  incautiously. 

The  face  of  Jonas  darkened  with  despair.  After 
this,  what  was  there  to  hope?  Martha,  however,  re 
turned  shamefacedly  to  her  guns. 

"  I  would  though,  Jonas,  if  I  could." 

"Honour  bright,  Marthy?  Will  ye  promise?"  de 
manded  that  gentleman,  visibly  expanding. 

"Why,  yes,  Jonas,  if  there  was  a  way,"  breathed 
the  hunted  victim. 

"All  right,"  exclaimed  the  victor  cheerfully,  rising 
forthwith.  "We'll  elope  then!  And  now  you've 
promised,  I'm  going  off  to  see  about  it." 

With  which  he  departed,  before  the  agitated  Miss 


184  RETARDED  BOMBS 

Waring  had  time  to  protest  against  the  base  advan 
tage  which  had  been  taken  of  her  defenceless  condi 
tion. 

Ill 

The  soul  of  Miss  Cockerill  was  ground  to  powder 
between  wrath  and  desire.  The  expected  had  hap 
pened,  and  neither  Jonas  Lane  nor  Martha  Waring 
had  told  her  a  word  about  it.  Martha  Lane,  she 
supposed  she'd  have  to  say  now.  They  were  un 
grateful  as  owls,  she  did  declare.  All  the  years  she'd 
known  them — and  Jonas  Lane  almost  as  much  her 
beau  as  Martha's!  She  didn't  know  which  to  be 
maddest  at:  Jonas,  who  had  promised  to  tell  her 
first  of  anybody  in  the  world,  after  Martha;  or  Mar 
tha,  who  had  told  her  everything  ever  since  she  was 
old  enough  to  have  anything  to  tell.  But  she 
couldn't  live  there  next  door  to  them  and  never 
make  a  sign.  They'd  think  it  queer — well,  as  they'd 
all  known  each  other.  And  it  didn't  seem  as  if  she 
could  wait  to  hear  about  it  all.  The  idea  of  their 
running  off  and  getting  married  like  that,  and  set 
ting  everybody  to  talk! 

So,  putting  her  pride  in  her  pocket — a  convenience 
which  the  modes  of  Ackerton  permitted  her — and  a 
shawl  over  her  head,  she  walked  across  to  Martha's 
kitchen  door. 

That  lady  opened  it,  beaming  consciously. 

"Well,  Susan!  We  began  to  think  we'd  have  to 
go  over  and  see  you  first." 


RETARDED  BOMBS  185 

Miss  Cockerill  eyed  her  hostess  curiously.  The 
change  in  her  spiritual  condition,  however,  had  ap 
parently  wrought  no  corresponding  physical  meta 
morphosis. 

"I  would  have  taken  it  kindly,  Martha,"  rejoined 
the  visitor.  "You  an'  Jonas  going  off  so  sudden-like 
kind  o'  took  my  breath  away." 

If  Miss  Cockerill  succeeded  in  dissembling  the 
poignancy  of  her  emotions,  Mrs.  Lane  nevertheless 
found  means  to  detect  it. 

"I  don't  wonder,  Susan!"  exclaimed  that  matron. 
"  It  took  mine  away,  too,  and  I've  hardly  got  it  back 
yet.  But  Jonas  would  have  it  so."  With  which  in 
teresting  information  she  drew  her  friend  toward 
the  sitting  room.  "Come  in  and  let's  visit  a  little. 
I  haven't  seen  you  for  such  a  while  and  dinner  isn't 
in  a  hurry." 

Miss  Cockerill  looked  about  her  as  they  went.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  events  so  momentous  must  leave 
a  mark  upon  their  material  surroundings.  But  the 
old  house  looked  exactly  as  she  had  known  it  for 
nearly  fifty  years.  Mrs.  Lane  observed  these  glances, 
and  interpreted  them  in  her  own  way. 

"No,  he  isn't  here,"  she  smiled.  "There's  too 
much  of  him  to  be  hid,  as  he  says.  He's  gone  down 
to  the  store  to  do  some  trading.  But  let  me  tell  you 
all  about  it.  It's  only  fair  as  you  should  know,  being 
such  an  old  friend  of  both  of  ours."  With  which  the 
two  ladies  settled  themselves  for  a  long  session. 

"You  see  it  was  this  way,"  began  the  bride,  exam- 


V 

186  RETARDED  BOMBS 

ining  her  apron  as  if  for  inspiration.  "You  know 
how  it  always  was  between  Jonas  and  me/' 

"Yes,"  admitted  Miss  Cockerill  inscrutably. 

"And  you  know  how  I  always  felt,  so  long  as  any 
of  my  family  were  left — that  my  first  duty  was  with 
them." 

"Yes,"  repeated  Miss  Cockerill. 

"Well,  when  Jonas  came  on  this  time,  so  soon  after 
mother's  death,  he  found  me  all  upset.  It  was  the 
change,  I  s'pose,  and  the  loneliness,  and  the  having 
no  one  to  look  out  for.  And  when  he  spoke  of  taking 
me  away  I  just  couldn't  go.  So  we  arranged  that  he 
should  come  here  instead.  And  I  can't  help  being 
glad  it  was  so.  It  isn't  so  hard  for  him,  as  'twould 
be  for  me  to  go  'way  out  where  he  lives." 

"Where  he  lived,"  suggested  Miss  Cockerill. 

Mrs.  Lane  accepted  the  amendment  with  a  smile. 

"And  when  we  came  to  talk  things  over  we  decided 
we  didn't  want  any  publicity — and  I  just  in  mourn 
ing,  you  know."  Mrs.  Lane  noted  that  this  point 
told.  "  We  didn't  know  just  how  to  manage,  though. 
Jonas,  he  was  for  going  before  the  justice.  But  I 
told  him  as  how  I  wouldn't  feel  right  if  I  wasn't  mar 
ried  by  a  minister.  Then  he  wanted  we  should  go  off 
somewheres  and  get  married  before  a  strange  min 
ister,  so  as  nobody  should  know  till  it  was  all  over. 
Eloping,  he  called  it,  like  a  story  book.  But  I  told 
him  I  wouldn't  have  any  goings  on  like  novels,  and 
that  if  I  couldn't  be  married  by  my  own  minister  I 
wouldn't  be  married  at  all." 


RETARDED   BOMBS  187 

"Dear  me!"  cried  Miss  Cockerill.  "After  all  the 
time  he's  waited!  I  thought  you  told  him  some 
thing,  though,  from  the  way  he  left  the  house  the  day 
he  came  back.  I  said  as  much  to  Mis'  Webster.  She 
was  with  me  at  the  time." 

"Is  that  so?  'Twas  Mrs.  Webster  that  finally 
fixed  it  up  with  Jonas.  It  simply  used  me  up,  and  he 
told  me  to  leave  it  to  him  and  he'd  get  us  married 
by  the  minister  without  any  fuss  and  feathers — or 
rice,"  she  added. 

"How  did  they  do  it?"  inquired  Miss  Cockerill. 

"Well,  I  invited  the  minister  and  his  wife  and 
Jonas  in  to  dinner,"  answered  the  bride.  "I  natu 
rally  would,  have  had  you,  Susan,  if  I'd  had  anybody 
outside.  But  Mrs.  Webster  had  to  know  about  it, 
being  the  minister's  wife,  and  she  was  really  the  one 
that  managed,  and  as  long  as  'twas  that  way  it 
seemed  a  comfort  to  have  some  other  woman 
there.  I  felt  awful  mean,  though,  not  telling  you, 
Susan." 

Whatever  might  have  been  the  opinions  of  the  lady 
addressed,  she  diplomatically  concealed  them  be 
hind  a  veil  of  impatience. 

"What  happened  then?"  she  asked. 

"Well,  before  going  to  the  table,  we  two  stood  up 
in  front  of  Mr.  Webster,  and  he  married  us.  Then 
we  sat  down  just  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  I  was 
that  scared,  though,  lest  somebody  should  come  in 
before  we  got  to  our  victuals,  that  I  kept  my  eye  out 
the  window  all  the  time." 


188  RETARDED   BOMBS 

"What  did  you  have  on?"  inquired  Miss  Cockerill. 
"You  didn't  have  much  time  to  get  things  made." 

"No,  I  didn't  want  to,  being  in  mourning  you 
know.  And  that  Hannah  Lee  never  could  hold  her 
tongue,  anyway!  So  I  just  wore  my  grey  silk,  and 
Jonas  said  we'd  get  whatever  else  we  wanted  when 
we  were  away." 

"  Oh ! "  ejaculated  Miss  Cockerill.    "And  then?  " 

"And  then  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Webster  went  away,  car 
rying  my  bag  with  the  few  things  I  needed,  and  Jonas 
went  back  to  the  hotel,  and  I  stayed  and  did  up  the 
dishes." 

"What  was  all  that  for?"  queried  Miss  Cockerill. 
"  I  should  think  Jonas  might  ha'  stayed  with  his  own 
wife." 

"No,  I  didn't  want  he  should.  People  might  have 
thought  it  strange  if  they'd  come  in.  And  the  Web- 
sters  took  my  bag  because  they  were  going  to  be  in 
their  team  down  at  the  end  of  the  garden  lot,  and  I 
was  going  out  as  if  to  pick  chrysanthemums,  and 
they  were  going  to  ask  me  to  take  a  ride  with 
them." 

"Why  in  the  world  did  you  have  them  there?" 
demanded  the  intrepid  Susan. 

"Why,  because  it  was  less  conspicuous,"  explained 
Mrs.  Lane.  "  They'd  just  been  here  to  dinner  and  had 
gone  away,  and  if  they'd  come  back  afterwards,  it 
might  have  looked  queer.  I  wanted  it  to  be  as  if  I 
saw  them  by  chance  like,  out  back  there.  Well,  after 
my  dishes  were  all  done  up,  and  everything  was  in 


RETARDED  BOMBS  189 

order,  and  the  house  locked  tight  for  going  away,  I 
went  upstairs  and  got  ready.  But  when  the  time 
came  it  seemed  as  if  I  could  never  go  in  the  world. 
I  just  stood  at  the  back  door  in  my  things  and 
couldn't  budge.  'Twas  only  the  idea  of  Jonas  going 
off  alone  by  himself  in  the  cars  that  started  me.  So  I 
opened  the  door,  very  softly,  and  stepped  out  as  light 
as  I  could,  and  locked  it  behind  me,  and  made  for 
the  garden.  I  was  just  sure  that  you  or  somebody 
would  see  me  and  call  out,  and  I  didn't  know  what  I 
should  say;  and  I  was  so  scared  I  couldn't  hardly  see. 
I  did  hear  some  kind  of  a  noise,  too,  and  that  made 
me  run.  And  I  ran  so  fast  I  actually  fell  down, 
Susan — flat  on  the  ground!" 

"  My ! "  exclaimed  that  sympathetic  auditor.  "  Did 
you  spoil  your  dress?" 

"Pretty  near.  I  was  all  over  dirt  when  I  finally 
got  to  the  carriage,  and  so  out  of  breath  I  couldn't 
open  my  mouth,  and  that  nervous  I  could  have  cried. 
I  guess  I  did  some,  too.  But  Mrs.  Webster  just  held 
my  hand,  and  Mr.  Webster  talked  about  the  weather 
and  the  crops  and  Jonas  and  everything,  as  natural 
as  natural.  And  by  and  by  I  perked  up.  And  we 
had  a  perfectly  lovely  ride  to  West  Carthage." 

"Jonas  met  you  there  then,  I  s'pose." 

"No — or  at  least  not  just  then.  I  wouldn't  have 
had  him  for  the  world.  Such  lots  of  Ackerton  folks 
go  to  West  Carthage." 

"Didn't  you  go  away  together  at  all,  then?"  in 
quired  Miss  Cockerill  sardonically. 


190  RETARDED   BOMBS 

"Why,  of  course  we  did ! "  cried  the  bride.  "Jonas 
came  in  on  the  train.  He  was  to  be  in  the  last  car 
but  one,  sitting  in  the  tenth  seat  from  the  back  on 
the  right-hand  side — away  from  the  station.  Well, 
we  got  there  just  a  little  before  time,  and  nobody 
could  have  told  who  was  going.  And  when  the  train 
came  in  Mrs.  Webster  kissed  me,  and  Mr.  Webster 
shook  hands,  and  they  both  said  real  nice  things,  and 
hoped  I'd  find  Jonas  all  right;  and  then  I  got  out 
and  got  on  the  car  just  as  it  started." 

"And  did  you  find  Jonas  all  right?"  pursued  the 
quizzical  Miss  Cockerill. 

"You  know  well  enough  you  don't  need  to  ask 
that,  Susan  Cockerill!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Lane.  "You 
always  find  Jonas  when  he  says  so.  He  was  right 
there  where  he  said,  looking  as  if  he'd  just  stolen 
cream." 

"I  should  think  he'd  ha'  been  scared  when  the 
train  started  and  you  wasn't  there." 

"I  don't  know.  If  he  was  he  didn't  show  it.  He 
just  said  he  was  used  to  waiting  for  me." 

For  a  moment  Miss  Cockerill  regarded  her  friend 
in  silence.  Then  she  remarked  some  what  cryptic 
ally: 

"Well,  if  I'd  known  it  was  as  easy  as  that  gettin' 
married,  I'd  ha'  done  it  myself!" 


SUSANNAH  AND  THE  ELDER 


THERE  was  also  a  Younger. 
He  had  just  come  down  from  Florence, 
where  a  white  umbrella  was  no  longer  proof 
against  the  August  sun,  and  where  even  the  secular 
shades  of  the  Uffizi  had  grown  intolerable.  But 
whether  Viareggio  were  an  effective  substitute  was  a 
debatable  question.  To  have  sought  refuge  from 
the  dim-roomed  palaces  above  the  Arno  in  a  pink 
casino  required  other  justification  than  that  of  greater 
security  against  the  attacks  of  Phoebus,  while  the 
charms  of  a  ragged  pine  wood  and  of  a  dubious  monu 
ment  to  Shelley  hardly  threw  the  scale  against  the 
Piazza  della  Signoria.  But  there  was  their  Ligurian 
Sea,  as  absurdly  overcoloured  as  a  lithograph,  which 
one  might  splash  in  all  day  long,  whereas  in  all 
Tuscany  was  there  scarcely  water  enough  to  wet 
your  finger  withal.  And,  too,  there  were  people. 

So  the  Younger  stood  in  the  doorway  of  the  Casino 
terrace  and  smiled.  For  while  the  Stabilimento,  like 
all  respectable  Stabilimenti,  was  rigidly  divided  into 
two  equal  halves,  with  the  dressing-rooms  of  the 
sheep  on  the  right  hand  and  those  of  the  goats  on 

the  left  of  the  central  caf £,  it  was  noticeable  that  the 

191 


192       SUSANNAH  AND   THE  ELDER 

spectators  tended  to  scatter  themselves  in  precisely 
the  opposite  sense.  What  chiefly  caused  the  Younger 
to  smile,  however,  was  that  at  the  extreme  right- 
hand  corner  table  he  recognised  the  back  of  the  Elder. 
This  personage,  upon  whom  time  had  already  im 
pressed  a  seal  only  too  legible,  was  what  it  pleased 
the  Younger  to  call  a  type;  and  in  types  he  conceived 
that  he  found  a  peculiar  profit.  Since  the  Elder, 
despite  his  worldly  degree,  was  known  in  Florentine 
circles  for  his  assiduity  among  the  studios — not  so 
much  in  the  quality  of  patron  of  the  arts  as  in  that 
of  amateur  of  the  society  to  be  found  therein — 
what  could  be  more  in  character  than  his  present 
post?  And  if  the  Younger  happened  to  be  better 
acquainted  with  the  back  which  he  now  beheld  than 
with  its  patrician  obverse,  he  found  in  that  circum 
stance  nothing  to  prevent  his  edging  through  the 
crowd  to  the  extreme  right-hand  corner  table. 

"Ah,  the  long  American  painter!"  cried  the  Elder, 
greeting  him  with  the  effusion  whose  secret  is  alone  to 
the  Latin  race.  "  You  have  come  to  look  for  models, 
eh?"  He  waved  his  hand  toward  the  more  or  less  ex 
posed  forms  disporting  themselves  on  the  sands  below. 

The  Younger  laughed. 

"Your  opportunities  are  limited  here,"  he  said. 
You  should  go  to  an  American  watering-place.  There 
young  men  and  maidens,  old  men  and  children, 
dressed  and  undressed,  sport  together  with  a  promis 
cuity!  You  would  imagine  yourself  by  the  waters 
of  Eden." 


SUSANNAH  AND   THE  ELDER        193 

"Cost?"  The  Elder  looked  up  a  moment.  "But 
after  all,  a  little  formality  is  better — a  little  illusion." 

"Illusion!"  cried  the  Younger.  "In  the  red  and 
white  stripes  so  bountifully  provided  by  the  Stabili- 
mento!  I  can  conceive  of  no  surer  cure  for  love  than 
to  chain  the  unhappy  victim  to  this  corner  and  force 
him  to  behold  his  inamorata  in  the  full  horror  of  her 
dishabille.  It  would  be  a  disillusionment  which  no 
passion  could  survive." 

"On  the  contrary,"  rejoined  the  Elder,  "you  will 
shortly  behold  a  vision  whose  like  you  might  seek  in 
vain  beside  your  waters  of  Eden." 

The  Younger  laughed  again. 

"There  is  already  a  vision,  is  there?  In  red  and 
white  stripes?  You  must  be  worse  off  than  usual, 
for  this  spectacle  is  positively  indecent.  It  is  more. 
It  is  revolting.  There  ought  to  be  a  law  limiting 
public  bathing  to  persons  between  the  ages  of — say 
— three  and  thirty-three,  with  special  clauses  ex 
cluding  individuals  of  inadequate  or  intolerable  di 
mensions!" 

The  Elder  laughed  in  turn. 

"That  is  why  I  am  too  vain  to  expose  myself. 
There  is  an  irrepressible  democracy  of  the  flesh  which 
is  fatal  to  the  most  exclusive  triumphs  of  the  tailor. 
But  wait  till  you  see  Dulcinea." 

"Who  is  she  this  time?"  inquired  the  Younger 
airily. 

The  Elder  turned  upon  him  a  reproachful  but  an 
unoff ended  monocle: 


194       SUSANNAH  AND  THE   ELDER 

"If  she  were  respectable  I  would  marry  her  to 
morrow." 

"Ah!"  uttered  the  Younger,  slowly.  "And  are 
you  respectable?  Not,  of  course,  that  I  mean  to  im 
ply  anything  against  a  Marquis  of  Tuscany."  , 

The  Elder  dropped  his  monocle. 

"What  will  you  have?  Things  are  like  that.  Be 
sides,  women  don't  care.  In  fact  they  are  all  the 
more  flattered  to  have  been  chosen  last.  It  proves 
their  pretensions." 

"  0 ! "  grinned  the  Younger.  "And  who  is  the  last?  " 

"Nobody  knows.  Some  say  she  is  a  diva  from 
Paris;  others  that  she  is  a  danseuse  from  Vienna;  and 
others —  But  she  is  here  on  some  caprice.  She  is 
waiting  for  someone.  I  have  tried  to  make  her  think 
it  was  for  me.  I  have  made  eyes.  I  have  smiled.  I 
have  sighed.  I  have  wept.  I  have  sent  flowers.  I 
have  written  poems.  I  have  thrown  myself  in  her 
path.  But  she  does  not  look.  She  goes  about  like 

anybody.  She  has  her — you  know — with  her 

an  old  fat  one." 

"  But  how  do  you  know  that  she  is  not  somebody?  " 
demanded  the  Younger. 

"Wait  till  you  see!"  admonished  the  Elder  darkly. 
"Does  anybody  flane  about  alone  and  refuse  to 
speak?  Does  anybody  wear  diamonds  in  the  day 
time?  Does  anybody  drag  frills  from  the  Rue  de  la 
Paix  over  the  sands  of  the  sea?  Does  anybody  come 
to  a  hole  like  Viareggio  when  they  might  be  at 
Venice  or  Scheveningen  or  Deauville?" 


SUSANNAH  AND   THE  ELDER        195 

The  Younger,  highly  entertained  by  this  impas 
sioned  picture,  was  on  the  point  of  pursuing  his  in 
quiries  when  the  Elder  evinced  a  sudden  excitement. 

"Look!"  he  whispered,  replacing  his  monocle. 

The  Younger  looked.  He  saw  a  woman,  extremely 
young,  extremely  pretty,  extremely  self-possessed, 
and  even  extremely  chic,  in  her  surrender  of  the  red- 
and-white  stripes  of  Viareggio  for  a  bathing  dress 
more  modish,  advance  slowly  toward  the  water.  She 
was  followed  by  an  older  lady,  who  had  long  since 
capitulated  before  the  stoutness  of  middle  life. 

"Do  you  see?"  cried  the  Elder.  "Can  anybody 
look  like  that  and  be  respectable?  " 

"Of  course/'  laughed  the  Younger.  "Why  in  the 
world  haven't  you  guessed?" 

"Who,  pray?"  the  Elder  demanded. 

"Why,  who  but  an  American?" 

"O-o-o!  I  never  thought  of  that."  And  in  the 
light  of  a  new  hypothesis  he  began  to  examine  Dul- 
cinea  afresh.  After  a  prolonged  scrutiny  he  spoke 
again:  "What  do  you  make  of  the  old  one  then,  on 
your  theory?" 

"Why,  who  should  she  be  but  the  girl's  mother?" 

"Do  mothers  let  their  daughters]  go  like  that — 
even  in  America?" 

"Like  what?  Her  mother  seems  to  be  going 
farther  than  she." 

"Ah,  yes;  you  haven't  seen,"  rejoined  the  other. 
"But  I  don't  believe  it,"  he  burst  out.  "How  do 
you  know?" 


196       SUSANNAH  AND   THE  ELDER 

"How  do  I  know?"  mused  the  Younger.  "How 
could  I  help  knowing — after  one  look.  Blood  is  thicker 
than  water:  an  electric  sympathy  assures  me!" 

"Yes,  an  electric  sympathy — when  it  is  that  one!" 
grinned  the  Elder. 

"Well,  then,  look  at  their  hair.  Haven't  all 
Americans  the  same  hair?" 

The  Elder  glanced  at  him. 

"You  have,  it  is  true.  The  mixture  of  races,  I 
suppose.  But  that  is  not  enough." 

"If  you  absolutely  demand  conviction,  then,  I 
know  because  they  have  been  pointed  out  to  me  in 
Florence  by  other  Americans." 

"Florence!"  exclaimed  the  Elder.  "Impossible! 
I  would  have  seen  them." 

"My  dear  Marquis,"  retorted  the  Younger,  "why 
should  you  have  seen  them?  Do  I  have  to  inform 
you  that  Florence  is  one  of  the  most  considerable 
American  cities  on  this  globe?  There  are  many  peo 
ple  in  Florence  whom  you  do  not  see.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  I  happen  to  know  that  they  live  there — in  a 
villino  outside  the  Porta  Romana.  I  can  even  tell 
you  that  they  have  no  contract  for  it — so  complete 
in  Florence  is  our  knowledge  about  each  other!  They 
came  more  than  a  year  ago,  saying  that  they  were  to 
leave  the  next  day.  They  have  said  so  every  day 
since;  but  the  landlord  is  as  sure  of  them  as  if  he  had 
a  ten-year  lease." 

"Who  are  they,  then?"  persisted  the  Elder. 
"What  else  do  your  friends  say  about  them?" 


SUSANNAH  AND   THE   ELDER        197 

"  Who  are  they !  That  is  the  one  thing  that  nobody 
knows,"  replied  the  Younger. 

"Ah,  I  told  you  they  were  not  respectable!"  pro 
claimed  the  Elder  in  triumph. 

The  Younger  was  touched  in  his  country's  honour. 

"My  dear  sir,"  he  objected  warmly,  "allow  me  to 
inform  you  that  you  entirely  misconceive  the  case. 
I  have  not  the  slightest  reason  to  suppose  them  other 
than  the  perfected  bloom  of  respectability.  Have 
you  heard  of  our  American  inventions?  Well,  they 
are  one  of  them — a  mother  and  daughter,  unattached. 
There  are  thousands  in  Florence.  Rome  is  full  of 
them.  Certain  Swiss  and  German  cities  contain  only 
enough  other  inhabitants  to  lodge,  feed,  clothe,  edu 
cate  and  divert  them.  In  America  you  meet  them  on 
every  corner.  They  have  always  emerged  from  some 
pre-existent,  perhaps  some  inferior  state  of  being, 
but  without  scandal;  which,  of  course,  is  not  to  say 
that  they  are  immune  from  the  frailties  of  the  race. 
But  never  be  deceived  by  them  again." 

The  Elder  smiled.  "Must  it  be  always  that— a 
mother  and  a  daughter?  Can't  there  be  two  daugh 
ters?  Or  another  mother?  " 

"Never,"  replied  the  Younger  firmly.  "If  there 
are,  then  it's  another  invention." 

"But  there  must  be  a  man,"  objected  the  Elder. 

"No,"  insisted  the  Younger,  "there  isn't.  There 
never  is.  You  might  ransack  the  universe  and  you 
wouldn't  find  him.  It's  like  spontaneous  combus 
tion — and  just  as  respectable." 


198       SUSANNAH  AND   THE  ELDER 

The  object  of  this  discussion  being  now  indistin 
guishable  in  the  dazzle  of  the  Mediterranean,  the 
Elder  pursued  his  inquiry. 

"If  these  ladies  are  of  origin  and  habits  se~out  of 
the  ordinary,  do  they  have  names? " 

"Rather!  They  are  called  Perkins,  I  believe.  The 
young  lady  is  Susannah.  Her  mamma  is  known 
behind  her  back  as  The  General." 

The  Elder  repeated  these  soft  appellations  to  him 
self.  Then  he  asked: 

"What  do  they  do  with  themselves?  Why  have 
I  never  met  them  in  the  world?" 

"  For  the  excellent  reason  that  they  don't  go.  They 
know  no  one.  They  see  the  dressmaker  and  a  few 
other  Americans,  and  basta." 

"Ah !  There  must  be  something  queer! "  burst  out 
the  Elder.  "You  haven't  told  me  all.  Otherwise 
how  could  they  help  not  knowing  everybody  and 
going  everywhere?" 

The  Younger  let  out  an  exaggerated  sigh. 

"  That  is  precisely  what  I  have  been  trying  to  ex 
plain  to  you,"  he  answered.  "But  it  is  true,"  he 
added;  "I  haven't  told  you  all." 

"Ah,  I  knew!  What  is  it?"  The  Elder  was  hectic 
in  his  eagerness. 

"Well,"  replied  the  Younger,  looking  for  his  effect, 
"Susannah  is  one  of  your  literary  ladies.  She  writes 
a  novel.  Not  novels,  you  understand,  but  a  novel. 
Some  ladies  keep  house.  Other  ladies  embroider  tea- 
cloths.  A  few  occupy  themselves  with  dogs,  or 


SUSANNAH  AND   THE  ELDER        199 

reforms.  Susannah  writes  a  novel.  She  is  a  porten 
tous  blue-stocking/' 

"Bluestocking!  On  that  leg!  Never!"  exploded 
the  Elder.  "  I  would  give  a  thousand  francs  to  know 
her!" 

The  Younger  regarded  his  companion  quizzically. 

"Would  you  really?" 

"0  you  young  men!"  cried  the  Elder.  "I  don't 
know  what  you  are  made  of  nowadays.  In  my  time 
there  was  more  fire.  I  repeat  it — I  would  give  a 
thousand  francs  to  know  her,  and  it  would  be  noth 
ing."  x 

"All  right,"  smiled  the  Younger.    "I'll  take  you." 

"Take  me?    Where?"  asked  the  mystified  Elder. 

"Why,  to  Susannah — for  a  thousand  francs." 

"To  Susannah!  My  poor  young  man,  little  you 
know  about  it.  I  have  been  here  a  month,  and  it 
isn't  so  easy  as  you  think." 

"On  the  contrary,"  contradicted  the  Younger 
suavely,  "it  is  far  easier  than  you  think.  I  happen 
to  know  a  good  deal  about  it,  for  I  am  personally  ac 
quainted  with  her.  I  have  shaken  her  hand,  I  have 
dined  at  the  nllino,  I " 

"Mother  of  Heaven!"  The  Elder  furiously 
clutched  his  arm.  "You  know  her,  and  you  talk  like 
this!  You  sit  here  calmly!  You  laugh!  You  lead 
me  by  the  nose!  You " 

Words  failed  him,  and  he  could  only  work  his  fin 
gers  into  the  Younger's  muscles. 

That  young  man  .tasted  of  his  advantage. 


200       SUSANNAH  AND   THE  ELDER 

"You  see  in  America  they  are  all  like  that." 

"And  you  are  here  to  say  so?  Then  you  are  either 
a  monster  or  a  liar." 

"Also,"  continued  the  Younger  placidly,  "you 
must  remember  that  I  am  a  poor  devil  of  an  artist, 
while  Susannah— 

"Ah,  I  will  marry  her  yet!"  cried  the  Elder  with 
a  new  enthusiasm.  "Take  me!  Take  me!" 

"  To  Susannah,  you  mean?  For  a  thousand  francs? 
I  will.  But  wait  till  she  comes  out  of  the  water." 

II 

If  Susannah  and  her  mother  were  an  American 
invention,  the  Younger  began  to  take  as  much  pleas 
ure  in  them  as  if  he  had  invented  them  himself. 
And  indeed,  in  a  way,  he  had.  Hitherto  his  ac 
quaintance  with  them  had  been  less  cordial,  if  any 
thing,  than  his  acquaintance  with  the  Elder.  If 
Susannah  had  maintained  an  armed  truce,  as  it  were, 
because  they  were  both  strangers  in  a  strange  land, 
he  had  cultivated  Susannah  merely  as  a  type.  There 
was  a  lack,  all  around,  of  personalities.  But  now 
that  he  had  lightly  thrown  Susannah  to  the  lions  he 
experienced  a  more  particular  interest  in  her  case. 
He  promised  himself  from  the  reaction  of  his  two 
types  some  such  entertainment  as  one  might  expect 
from  the  encounter  of  an  irresistible  force  with  an 
immovable  obstacle. 

He  was  not  long  re-established  in  Florence  before 
the  Elder  repaired  one  day  to  the  Younger's  studio. 


SUSANNAH  AND   THE   ELDER       201 

"It  is  all  arranged/'  he  announced  importantly. 
"  I  am  going  to  marry  her." 

The  Younger,  it  must  be  confessed,  was  a  little 
surprised  that  Susannah  should  have  fallen  so  soon. 
But  he  kept  his  guard. 

"My  dear  marquis,  let  me  congratulate  you!  Have 
you  set  the  day?" 

"0,  the  details  have  yet  to  be  arranged.  But  I 
have  spoken  to  her  mother." 

A  light  began  to  break  upon  the  Younger. 

"And  The  General  is  favourable?" 

"The  General  is  favourable — most  favourable. 
She  could  not  be  favourable  enough." 

I  have  not  explained  that  Susannah's  parent,  in 
virtue  of  a  striking  resemblance  to  the  Father  of  her 
Country,  and  of  certain  military  qualities  which  she 
possessed,  was  known  among  her  fellow  exiles  as  The 
General. 

"I  hope  Susannah  was  equally  favourable,"  the 
Younger  lightly  threw  out. 

"She  was  not  there.  But  after  the  mother  has 
given  her  assurance— 

The  Younger  began  incontinently  to  laugh. 

"My  poor  marquis!    Didn't  you  know?" 

"Know  what?"  demanded  that  nobleman  un 
easily. 

"That  the  mother  has  nothing  to  do  with  it?" 

"How  has  she  nothing  to  do  with  it?  She  has 
everything  to  do  with  it.  Isn't  Susannah  her  daugh 
ter?" 


202       SUSANNAH  AND   THE  ELDER 

"I  have  no  reason  to  suspect  the  contrary.  But 
in  our  country — you  know " 

"Well,  what  about  this  extraordinary  country  of 
yours?" 

"Why,  in  our  country" — the  Younger  put  it  as 
gently  as  he  could — "we  don't  ask  the  mother." 

"What  in  the  world  do  you  do  then?  Is  it  like  the 
Rape  of  the  Sabines,  par  exemple!  Do  you  ride  in 
and  carry  them  off?" 

"0,  not  a  bit!  Sometimes  they  ride  in  and  carry 
us  off.  But  we — we  are  more  discreet.  We  go  in 
very  softly  and  ask  them  if  they'll  come." 

"Without  waking  the  mother  up?  I  see!  It's  an 
other  invention."  The  Elder  was  visibly  annoyed. 

"Come!"  cried  the  Younger:  "You  needn't  be  so 
fierce.  I  didn't  invent  it.  You  had  better  be  congrat 
ulating  yourself  that  The  General  didn't  gobble  you 
up  on  the  spot — for  herself." 

The  marquis  looked  very  blank. 

"Then  I  have  done  nothing?"  he  asked  at 
last. 

"Caw  marchese"  began  the  Younger  soothingly, 
"to  have  gained  a  friend  is  always  to  have  done 
something.  It  is  very  well  to  have  The  General  on 
your  side.  It  will  make  her  all  the  more  amenable 
when  you  come  to  the  matter  of  settlements.  For  I 
must  warn  you  before  it  is  too  late  that— 

"  What?  "  The  Elder  braced  himself  as  for  another 
blow. 

"That  we  don't  make  settlements." 


SUSANNAH  AND  THE  ELDER       203 

It  was  as  if  suddenly  the  Elder  had  seen  a  moun 
tain  slide  into  the  sea. 

"What  the  devil  do  you  make  then?" 

"We,"  replied  the  Younger  with  a  particular  in 
flection,  "make  love!" 

"Oh!"  ejaculated  the  Elder. 

And  he  turned  on  his  heel. 

in 

He  let  several  suns  go  down  on  a  certain  stiffness 
which  he  felt  toward  his  young  adviser.  But  that  it 
was  no  more  than  a  stiffness  was  proven  by  his  even 
tual  reappearance.  The  Younger  in  the  meantime 
was  more  or  less  in  the  dark  as  to  the  progress  of 
events.  He  knew  that  there  was  no  break  as  yet; 
but  his  previous  acquaintance  with  Susannah  and 
The  General  had  not  been  such  as  to  entitle  him  to 
their  confidences.  He  was  accordingly  much  pleased 
when  the  Elder  came  back. 

"This  time  I  am  ready  for  you,"  observed  that 
worthy.  "And  I  might  add  that  she  is  ready  for 
me." 

The  Younger's  intentions  had  been  of  the  best; 
but  if  you  make  a  pass  at  a  fencer  his  wrist  will 
spring  instinctively  into  play. 

"Which  one?"  he  inquired,  with  a  smile. 

"Do  you  ask?"  retorted  the  Elder. 

"I  stand  corrected.  Of  course,  you  will  have  to 
take  them  both.  Have  they  given  their  word?" 

"Ah — do  you  mean  that  the  old  one  will  be  hard 


204       SUSANNAH  AND  THE  ELDER 

to  shake  off?"  put  the  Elder,  with  something  less  of 
assurance. 

"Not  at  all.  I  mean  that  neither  of  them  can  be 
shaken  off.  It  is  a  particularity  of  the  case.  It  is 
like  the  Siamese  twins.  Whoever  takes  one,  takes 
both.  It  is  the  one  case  of  plural  marriage  tolerated 
in  my  country." 

"In  that  case,"  rejoined  the  Elder  unperturbed, 
"there  will  be  no  trouble  about  the  settlements." 

The  Younger  took  his  pink  with  a  laugh.  "Then 
you  have  been  making  the  other  thing.  Have  you 
asked  her  yet?" 

"No.  But  it  comes  to  the  same.  I  have  sounded 
her." 

"0!  And  she  rang  true?  How  did  you  manage 
it?" 

The  Elder  took  his  step  without  a  tremour.  "I 
offered  her  a  present  and  she  accepted  it." 

The  Younger  left  him  an  instant  in  his  security. 

"Yes?    What  was  it?" 

"An  antique  pendant.  At  this  moment  it  is  hang 
ing  against  her  heart." 

The  Younger  took  this  picture  in,  but  he  repressed 
a  laugh. 

"My  dear  marquis,  you  might  give  her  seventy- 
three  pendants,  and  I  presume  her  heart  is  large 
enough  to  hang  all  of  them  against  it.  But  that 
would  prove  nothing." 

The  Elder  looked  reproach  before  he  proffered  it: 

"You  assure  me  she  is  respectable.    How  can  she 


SUSANNAH  AND  THE  ELDER       205 

receive  presents  from  a  man,  how  can  her  mother  al 
low  her  to  receive  presents,  unless  she  means  some 
thing?" 

"Perfectly  well,"  laughed  the  Younger  irritatingly. 

"And  is  that  another,  may  I  ask,  of  your  famous 
inventions?"  put  the  Elder  with  some  irony. 

"It  is  perhaps  the  most  famous  of  all,"  replied  the 
younger,  without  a  qualm.  "We  are  a  philosophic 
people.  We  take  what  comes,  whether  it  be  dia 
monds  or  bankruptcy." 

"  Yes,  but  young  girls ! "  burst  out  the  Elder.  "  Can 
they  take  diamonds  and  keep  their  characters?" 

"Perfectly  well!  What  have  diamonds  to  do  with 
character?  The  young  girls  do  not  attach  the  exag 
gerated  importance  to  material  things  which  you  do 
here.  They  receive  necklaces,  tiaras,  stomachers,  as 
the  merest  natural  tribute  to  their  charms,  and  as 
simply  as  they  would  receive  wild  flowers.  It  means 
nothing." 

The  Elder  gasped. 

"And  would  they  be  capable  of  refusing  one  after 
that?" 

"Perfectly." 

"Madre  di  Dio!    What  a  society!    What  taste! 

What "  He  could  say  no  more.    But  even  in  the 

rapids  he  felt  that  the  Younger  was  the  only  one  to 
pilot  him  ashore.  "Do  you  positively  mean  to  tell 
me,  then,  that  I  am  nowhere?" 

The  Younger  relented  a  little. 

"Of  course  I  cannot  read  the  secrets  of  Susannah's 


206       ;SUSANNAH  AND  THE  ELDER 

heart.  For  all  I  know  you  may  be  enshrined  within 
its  inmost  recess.  I  only  tell  you  that  the  pendant, 
by  itself,  means  nothing."  ' 

The  Elder  looked  lost. 

"Do  I  accomplish  nothing,  then,  by  what  I  have 
done?" 

"Only,"  improvised  the  Younger  briskly,  "by  fol 
lowing  it  up.  A  pendant  is  very  well,  but  it  is  not 
enough.  You  see,  in  America  anybody  might  give 
her  a  pendant — the  plumber,  the  ice-man,  the  under 
taker.  You  must  do  more.  You  must  offer  solid 
proofs  of  your  state  of  heart.  You  must  find  out 
what  Susannah  wants.  If  it  is  something  which  can 
be  made  to  order,  into  which  you  can  put  something 
of  yourself,  all  the  better.  Then  she  will  know  that 
you  are  in  earnest,  and  will  act  accordingly." 

The  Elder  took  it  seriously — not  in  a  pique,  but  as 
under  the  enlarging  influence  of  new  ideas. 

"I  have  heard  her  speak  of  something,"  he  uttered 
slowly,  interrogatively. 

"What  was  it?" 

"Do  you  remember  those  door  knockers  at  Palazzo 
Testadura?  Bronze?  By  Benvenuto  Cellini?" 

"  The  Neptune,  you  mean?  " 

"Yes.  She  said  she  wished  they  had  them  at  the 
villino.  They  have  nothing  but  an  iron  finger  or 
something,  you  know.  I  could  have  them  copied — 
by  way  of  a  beginning." 

"Yes!"  cried  the  Younger  in  a  final  burst  of  in 
spiration.  "And  to  give  the  personal  note,  to  suggest 


SUSANNAH  AND  THE  ELDER       207 

delicately  the  idea  of  your  knocking  at  her  door,  you 
could  have  the  Neptune's  head  modeled  after  your 
own!" 

IV 

Thus  it  came  about  that  the  genetic  word  was 
spoken.  To  stop  its  effect  was  now  beyond  the  power 
of  man.  Thenceforward  it  remained  for  the  Younger 
only  to  stand  by  and  admire  his  handiwork. 

Events  were  by  no  means  slow  in  materialising. 
The  Elder  quickly  reported  on  the  knockers.  Mel- 
coni,  the  sculptor,  had  taken  a  cast  and  was  to  re 
model  the  head  in  accordance  with  the  Younger's 
suggestion.  The  prospective  donor  was  already  en 
gaged  upon  a  sequence  of  sonnets — in  the  manner  of 
Petrarch,  he  said — to  accompany  the  gift.  In  the 
meantime  he  had  ascertained  that  Susannah  would 
not  draw  a  tranquil  breath  until  she  possessed  a  cer 
tain  heraldic  shield,  an  old  stone  coat-of-arms  which 
hung  high  above  the  street  on  the  corner  of  a  house 
across  the  Arno.  He  had  accordingly  entered  into 
negotiation  with  the  owner  of  the  house,  had  acquired 
for  a  fabulous  sum  the  shield  in  question  and  had 
borne  it  in  triumph  to  the  expectant  Susannah. 

This  was  but  the  beginning.  The  Younger  no 
longer  needed  to  offer  suggestions.  The  Elder's  own 
imagination  was  fertilised,  and  now  that  he  knew 
how  ladies  were  wooed  in  America  he  purposed  to 
win  Susannah.  That  young  woman  expressed  no 
fleeting  fancy  which  her  admirer  did  not  at  once 


208       SUSANNAH  AND   THE   ELDER 

embody  for  her  in  some  form  of  art.  She  could  not 
look  with  favour  on  the  moon  but  that  the  marquis 
would  run  to  order  of  his  jeweller  a  replica  of  that 
heavenly  orb,  in  material  far  more  precious  than  the 
original.  He  could  think  only  in  terms  of  the  idea 
which  the  Younger  had  implanted  in  his  mind.  The 
door  of  the  villino  swung  unceasingly  to  messengers 
from  the  goldsmith,  the  dealer  in  antiques,  the  flor 
ist,  the  pastry  cook.  Even  the  upholsterer  went, 
and  to  all  was  displayed  an  equal  hospitality. 

At  this  the  Younger  began  to  feel  a  secret  irrita 
tion.  He  was  amused.  He  was  gratified  to  find  his 
types  turn  out  so  typical.  But  it  seemed  to  him  they 
overdid  it.  He  had  not  really  supposed  that  Susan 
nah  was  so  bad  as  that.  It  verged  on  the  scandalous. 
Unless — but  it  could  mean  only  one  thing. 

Matters,  however,  proved  not  to  be  so  simple, 
after  all.  There  came  a  day  when  the  Elder  entered 
the  studio  in  a  state  of  mind  more  perturbed  than 
any  he  had  yet  betrayed. 

"She  has  refused  me,"  he  called  out.  "What  do 
you  think  of  that?" 

The  Younger  did  not  know  what  to  think  of  it. 
While,  on  the  one  hand,  he  could  not  restrain  a  cer 
tain  gratification  at  Susannah's  discernment,  he 
deprecated,  on  the  other,  her  amazing  course  with 
regard  to  the  presents.  But  the  Elder  left  him  no 
time  to  muse. 

"And  what  do  you  suppose  she  said?"  he  continued 
excitedly.  "She  said  she  wasn't  sure  how  much  I 


SUSANNAH  AND   THE  ELDER       209 

really  cared  for  her.  How  much!  She  holds  out  her 
hand  for  everything  I  bring  and  then  she  agreeably 
withdraws  it  when  she  sees  nothing  more.  After  I 
have  made  myself  the  talk  of  the  town!" 

"Well,  you  know  what  I  told  you,,  remarked  the 
Younger,  who  was  much  at  sea.  "Did  you  expect 
to  bribe  her?" 

"Yes,  I  know  what  you  told  me.  And  I  know 
what  to  think  of  such  people." 

The  Younger  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"If  that  is  the  way  you  take  it,  I  begin  to  think 
Susannah  is  right." 

The  Elder  threw  him  a  look. 

"But  what  does  she  want?"  he  cried,  clasping  his 
hands  dramatically  in  the  air.  "  What  does  she  want 
that  I  can't  give  her?  What  is  she  now,  compared 
to  what  she  would  be  as  my  wife?" 

The  Younger  examined  his  finger  nails. 

"You  have  already  had  some  opportunity  to  learn 
that  an  American  girl  is  the  most  unfettered  creature 
in  the  universe.  She  may  think  it  more  amusing  to 
stay  so  than  to  become  an  Italian  marchioness." 

"I  thought  you  said  they  were  respectable — your 
famous  jeunes  filles,"  exclaimed  the  Elder  sarcasti 
cally. 

The  Younger  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"At  any  ra'te  she  won't  stay  jeune  forever.  And 
what  is  she  now,  compared  to  what  she  would  be 
come?  She  is  nobody,  whereas  my  wife "  A 

handsome  gesture  left  the  Younger  to  figure  that 


210       SUSANNAH  AND  THE  ELDER 

personage.  "Then  she  evidently  finds  the  attrac 
tions  of  this  country  superior  to  the  rather  problemat 
ical  ones — if  you  will  pardon  me! — of  her  own. 
She  says  every  day  she  is  going,  but  she  never 
goes." 

"Well,  she  is  at  least  free  to  go.  And  you  must 
remember  that  America  is  gilded  with  the  associa 
tions  of  an  unbitted  youth.  There  is  but  an  open 
door  between  her  and  an  iridescent  dream.  When 
Europe  has  no  more  to  offer  her  champing  spirit  she 
has  but  to  step  back  into  that  happy  hunting-ground 
of  the  jeune  fille.  Whereas  with  you — the  door  would 
close  behind  her." 

The  Elder  put  this  from  him  with  a  twist  of  head 
and  hand.  "Excuse  me,  caro  mio,  if  I  seem  to  allude 
to  personal  matters.  But  you  will  remember  that 
at  Viareggio,  that  first  time,  you  attributed  some- 
,  thing  of  your  own  coolness  to — to  the  fact " 

"Of  being^a  pauper?"  filled  out  the  Younger  cheer 
fully.  "Yes." 

"Well,  if  I  must  say  it,  she  could  do  much  worse 
than  to  marry  me.  Doesn't  she  know?" 

"That  is  true,"  admitted  the  Younger,  studying 
his  nails  anew.  From  another  these  facts  somehow 
came  with  less  grace.  So  he  contented  himself  with 
adding:  "But  she  might  also  do  better." 

"How?"  interrogated  the  Elder,  turning  savagely 
upon  him.  "  What  more,  I  ask  you,  can  a  respectable 
girl  want?  In  God's  name,  what  more?" 

The  Younger  suddenly  knew  that  he  approved 


SUSANNAH  AND  THE  ELDER        211 

enough  of  Susannah's  discernment  to  suspend  judg 
ment  upon  her  bad  taste. 

" Perhaps  what  you  call  'respectability/  for  one 

thing,"  he  suggested.  "And  for  another "  He 

pulled  up.  "Yet  she  has  that  already.  So  why 
should  she  want  it?" 

"What?"  demanded  the  Elder.  "I  will  give  her 
whatever  she  wants.  What  is  it?" 

The  way  in  which  he  shouted  it  made  the  Younger 
look  out  of  the  window. 

"Youth,"  he  replied. 

There  was  a  silence.  There  was  such  a  silence  that 
the  Younger  knew  he  had  been  a  fool.  He  turned 
around  with  the  intention  of  smoothing  things  over 
a  bit,  and  the  look  which  he  caught  on  the  Elder's 
face  deepened  his  pang. 

But  the  marquis,  giving  him  no  time,  passed  it  off. 

"Eh,  my  young  friend,  you  have  hit  it  on  the  head. 
But  never  mind.  I  have  not  made  myself  the  talk 
of  the  town  for  nothing.  And  Miss  Susannah  shall 
find  it  out.  I  will  go  on  as  I  have  begun.  I  will  pay 
her  such  attention,  I  will  give  her  such  presents,  that 
even  she — even  she — will  find  that  she  is  compro 
mised.  Then  I  will  tell  you  whom  she  will  marry." 

And  with  this  delicate  intimation  he  stalked  away. 

V 

This  was  how  it  came  to  the  Younger  that  more 
might  lie  in  experiments  than  one  foresaw.  He  did 
not  like  at  all  that  insinuation  that  the  marquis 


212       SUSANNAH  AND  THE  ELDER 

would  catch  Susannah  by  foul  means  if  not  by  fair. 
But,  however  he  might  dislike  the  Elder's  tactics, 
the  Younger  felt  his  own  share  of  the  respon 
sibility. 

The  two  men  met  one  morning  at  the  gate  of  the 
villino — the  Younger  going  in,  the  Elder  coming  out. 
They  exchanged  ceremonious  salutations,  as  usual. 

"I  have  just  brought  the  knockers/'  said  the  lat 
ter.  "  I  am  much  obliged  for  that  clever  suggestion 
of  yours.  The  head  is  a  speaking  likeness." 

The  Younger  smiled  uncomfortably. 

"Yes?  And  what  does  pur  young  lady  think  of 
them?" 

"She  is  very  pretty.  She  says  they  are  too  charm 
ing  to  put  out  here  on  the  door.  She  must  keep  them 
by  her." 

The  Younger  stepped  inside  and  slammed  the  gate 
in  the  other's  face.  Could  a  spectator  then  have 
seen  both  sides  of  the  wall  he  would  have  observed 
each  gentleman,  very  red,  contemplating  for  a  mo 
ment  the  closed  door.  He  would  finally  have  beheld 
them  turn  and  walk  away — the  Elder  slowly,  shrug 
ging  his  shoulders;  the  Younger  in  haste, his  head  held 
high. 

He  found  Susannah  in  the  sala,  laughing  over  the 
obnoxious  knockers.  The  sight  of  it  angered  him  the 
more. 

"My  dear  young  lady,"  he  cried  out,  "you  have 
made  a  fool  of  yourself  long  enough.  You  must  go 
home." 


SUSANNAH  AND   THE  ELDER        213 

Susannah  stopped  laughing,  for  very  surprise.  She 
examined  the  flushed  Younger  curiously,  as  if  he  had 
been  a  strange  beast  in  a  cage. 

"Why/'  she  said,  "what  is  the  matter  with  you? 
Do  you  feel  ill?  Shall  I  ring  for  Gilda?" 

The  Younger  flung  his  hat  into  a  chair. 

"I  do  feel  ill!  You  and  the  marquis  make  me  ill 
between  you!" 

"Oh,  the  marquis!"  Susannah  glanced  at  the 
knockers  and  smiled.  "Yes,  I  remember.  You  in 
troduced  the  marquis  to  me.  Didn't  you?" 

"Yes,"  he  snapped.    "That's  why  I'm  here  now." 

She  laughed. 

"What  funny  creatures  men  are!  They  never 
think  of  things  beforehand.  And  they  said  you  were 
clever." 

"I  never  told  you  so/'  he  retorted  rather  dully. 
"You'd  better  wait  till  you  get  things  from  head 
quarters." 

"So  had  you,"  she  rapped  out.  "Who  told  you, I 
was  making  a  fool  of  myself?" 

"Nobody!  Nobody  needed  to!  What  under  the 
sun  do  you  mean  by  filling  your  house  with  his 
truck?" 

"What  business  is  it  of  yours?"  demanded  Susan 
nah  hotly.  "You  don't  care  anything  about  us!" 

"  What  if  I  don't?  I  care  about  seeing  my  country 
made  a  scandal." 

Susannah  again  looked  at  him  curiously  a  mo 
ment. 


214       SUSANNAH  AND  THE  ELDER 

"0!  If  you  are  so  patriotic  I  wonder  you  don't  go 
home  yourself.  Wouldn't  that  be  the  easiest  way 
out  of  your—"  she  smiled — "your  troubles?" 

"No!  That  wouldn't  stop  anything.  I  want 
things  stopped.  I  want  you  to  go." 

"Well,  well!"  she  exclaimed.  "You  are  in  a  hurry 
all  of  a  sudden.  It  seems  to  me  that  you  ask  a  good 
deal  of  people  you  have  done  so  little  for — though 
perhaps  you  have  done  a  good  deal.  Is  that  all?  " 

"No!"  he  cried.  "Since  you  ask,  I  want  you  to 
send  him  back  all  these  things — every  single  one  of 
them." 

She  looked  at  him  more  curiously  still. 

"  What !  All  these  pretty  things !  Why,  we're  only 
just  beginning  to  get  comfortable.  And  see!  He  just 
brought  me  something  else." 

She  held  up  the  knockers,  as  if  they  had  been  two 
dolls.     The  Younger  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
walked  to  the  end  of  the  room. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  he  suddenly  threw 
at  her.  "Are  you  going  to  marry  him?" 

She  laughed  softly. 

"Him?  0  no!  No!  And  I  don't  even  think  he 
really  wants  me  to.  It's  a  sort  of  game,  you  see," 
she  added,  with  a  confiding  seriousness. 

"Dio  mio!  I  do  see.  I  have  seen  for  a  good  while. 
How  long  are  you  going  to  keep  it  up?" 

"I  don't  think  you  really  deserve  to  know,"  she 
said,  with  her  head  on  one  side.  "But  since  you  ask, 
and  since  you  began  it,  I  will  tell  you."  She  assumed 


SUSANNAH  AND  THE  ELDER       215 

an  air  of  great  mystery.  "I'm  going  to  keep  it  up 
till  he  brings  me  the  gold  salt  cellars!" 

He  stared  at  her.  But  she  faced  him  out.  And 
when  he  walked  away  to  a  window  she  threw  him  a 
question  in  turn. 

"Now  that  I've  told  you  what  you  wanted  to 
know,  will  you  tell  me  something?" 

"What  is  it?"    He  faced  partly  about. 

"Just  how  did  the  game  begin?  What  did  you 
tell  him,  I  mean?  You  see,  his — his  manners — were 
so  different  before  you  came  and  after." 

The  Younger  laughed  curtly. 

"I  told  him  you  were  respectable." 

At  this  he  looked  out  of  the  window  again. 

"Oh — respectable,"  said  Susannah  behind  him. 
"You  told  him  I  was  respectable?  That  was  very 
kind  of  you — I'm  sure."  And  then  the  Eternal 
Feminine  came  out  with  a  sob.  "You  horrid  man! 
You  perfectly  horrid  man!  You're  just " 

She  flounced  out  of  the  room. 

VI 

The  Elder  stood  at  the  gate  of  the  vittino.  It  was 
a  post  familiar  enough  to  him,  and  the  particular  ob 
ject  upon  which  his  eyes  rested  was  scarcely  less  so. 
But  the  juxtaposition  was  unusual.  For  the  panel 
before  him  was  embellished  by  that  replica  of  Ben- 
venuto's  knocker,  to  which  reference  has  already  so 
frequently  been  made.  What  manner  of  omen  could 
it  be?  He  studied  the  knocker.  He  studied  the 


216       SUSANNAH  AND   THE  ELDER 

door.    And  finally  it  occurred  to  him  to  apply  the 
one  with  some  vehemence  to  the  other. 

In  response  to  this  overture  a  flip-flap  of  slippers 
clattered  across  the  flagging  within,  and  the  door 
was  opened  by  Gilda  in  person.  Again  the  Elder 
wondered.  For  hitherto  the  door,  obeying  some  sec 
ret  impulse,  had  betrayed  no  hint  of  human  agency. 
The  maid,  however,  left  him  no  time  to  parley: 
"0  signor  marchese!  The  ladies  have  gone  to  Amer 
ica.  Did  he  forget?" 

"Diavolo!"  ejaculated  that  personage. 

"Yes,  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ago.  They  said 
they  told  him  they  were  going,  but  in  case  he  forgot 
and  came  again — the  marchese  has  made  such  a 
habit! — to  let  him  know  they  were  leaving  by  the 
Genoa  train,  at  eleven.  There  is  still  time/' 

The  Elder  looked  at  his  watch. 

"  Is  there  still  time?  "  he  uttered  slowly.  He  stared 
at  the  sea  god  who  so  splendidly  brandished  in  his 
own  image  the  trident  before  his  eyes. 

"If  the  marchese  hastens,"  replied  the  interested 
Gilda.  "Mypadrona- 

But  the  Elder  quenched  her  with  a  silver  lira  and 
strode  away.  Even  after  he  had  ordered  a  cabman 
to  hurry  him  to  the  station,  though,  he  did  not  really 
believe  he  would  go  in.  Indeed,  by  the  time  he 
reached  the  station  he  was  quite  sure  he  would  not 

go  in.    That  would  be  too Yet  he  jumped  out  of 

the  carriage  before  it  stopped,  and  ran  through  to 
the  platform.     He  would  just  find  out!    And  he 


SUSANNAH  AND   THE   ELDER       217 

charged  into  the  arms  of  the  Younger,  who  was 
strolling  up  and  down  with  a  cigarette. 

"It  is  true,  eh?"  asked  the  Elder,  collecting  him 
self  against  this  new  surprise.  For  the  moment  it 
escaped  him  that  he  and  the  Younger  were  no  longer 
on  the  best  of  terms. 

" It  looks  like  it,"  replied  the  other.  "Shall  I  take 
you  to  the  compartment?" 

The  Elder  did  not  answer.  But  he  followed  his 
companion,  replacing  his  monocle  on  the  way;  and 
presently,  in  all  truth,  he  beheld  Susannah  and  The 
General  enthroned  amid  mountains  of  luggage. 

"Why,  we  began  to  think  you  weren't  coming!" 
cried  Susannah,  smiling  out  of  the  window.  "That 
would  have  been  a  nice  way  to  treat  us!" 

The  Elder  made  an  extravagant  bow. 

"  If  you  give  no  hint " 

Susannah  laughed.  "No  one  ever  got  so  many 
hints.  We  have  told  you  every  day.  We  told  you 
yesterday." 

The  Elder  passed  it  off  with  a  shrug. 

"How  soon  may  we  expect  you  back?" 

Susannah  shook  her  finger  out  of  the  window. 

"Never!    We  are  through  with  Europe." 

"0!"  The  marquis  laughed.  "And  how  about 
America?  " 

"Dear  me!"  cried  Susannah.  "There's  no  com 
parison!" 

"So  I  have  understood!"  exclaimed  the  Elder 
gaily,  glancing  at  the  Younger. 


218       SUSANNAH  AND   THE  ELDER 

"I  don't  think  you  understand  well  enough, 
though,"  objected  Susannah.  "You  don't  seem  to 
understand  that,  after  all,  people  make  more  dif 
ference  than  things.  And  the  people  there  are  dif 
ferent.  It  isn't  just  that  they  don't  act  like  monkeys 
the  first  time  they  see  you  on  the  beach.  It  isn't 
that  they  aren't  taken  in  so  easily,  and  that  they 
don't  make  such  fools  of  themselves.  They  are 
nicer.  They  are  kinder.  They  have  some  decency 
and  some  self-respect." 

She  quite  lost  her  climaxes  in  her  haste  to  get  it 
out,  and  in  her  smile  there  was  something  very 
pointed. 

As  for  the  marquis,  he  again  made  a  profound 
bow. 

"They  are  very  superior  beings,  I  am  sure.  But 
you  seem  to  have  been  some  time  in  coming  to  this 
conclusion." 

Susannah's  head  dropped  a  little  to  one  side. 

"Not  so  long  as  you  might  think,"  she  said.  "I 
reached  it  at  Viareggio,  last  summer." 

"Indeed!"  exclaimed  the  marquis.  "And  may 
one  ask  how,  with  such  a  weight  upon  your  mind, 
you  succeeded  in  deferring  your  departure  so  long?  " 

"Why,  yes!  And  what  is  more,  I  will  tell  you.  I 
was  waiting  to  furnish  the  villino.  It  wasn't  quite 
complete,  you  know,  until  the  other  day.  Did  I  tell 
you"  she  asked,  turning  to  the  Younger,  "that  the 
marquis  had  given  me  the  loveliest  little  gold  salt 
cellars?" 


SUSANNAH  AND   THE   ELDER        219 

"Your  furniture  will  be  much  admired  in  your 
American  home/'  remarked  the  Elder  pleasantly. 

"0  dear  no!"  cried  Susannah.  "I  wouldn't  have 
anything  in  my  American  home  to  remind  me  of 
Europe.  We  have  left  the  villino,  just  as  it  stands,  to 
the  new  tenant." 

"Ah!  You  must  have  got  something  very  hand 
some  for  so  completely  equipped  an  establishment — 
even  to  gold  salt  cellars,"  exclaimed  the  Elder,  with 
an  amiable  smile. 

"Perhaps  I  might  have,"  replied  Susannah;  "but 
the  new  tenant  could  scarcely  have  afforded  that." 

"And  may  I  ask  who  the  happy  man  may  be?" 
inquired  the  Elder,  with  perhaps  a  shade  of  interest. 

"0,  it  isn't  a  man  at  all,"  said  Susannah.  "It's 
our  maid,  you  know — Gilda.  She  has  been  so  good 
— the  one  good  person  in  Europe,  I  believe.  We 
bought  the  house  for  her,  and  took  the  trouble  to 
have  a  complete  inventory  put  in  the  deed — down  to 
the  door-knockers — so  that  there  might  be  no  mis 
understanding  about  it." 

Whatever  the  Elder  might  have  had  for  that  was 
spoiled  by  the  guard,  who  hurried  toward  them, 
locking  the  compartment  doors.  Turning  to  the 
Younger  the  Elder  took  his  arm. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "it  seems  to  me  that  we  are  for 
saken!" 

He  was  admirable.  He  had  never  been  so  admir 
able.  The  Younger,  however,  gently  disengaged 
himself. 


220       SUSANNAH  AND  THE  ELDER 

"Pardon  me.  I  am  sorry  to  seem  rude,  but — I  am 
going,  too." 

And  he  made  for  the  door  before  the  guard  should 
lock  it. 

"Par~ten-za!"  shouted  that  functionary,  with  en 
ergy. 

The  two  young  people  stood  together  at  the  win 
dow,  looking  down  at  the  Elder.  For  an  instant  the 
Younger 's  heart  smote  him.  But  something  from 
the  eyes  nearer  his  own  hardened  him  again  to  the 
cruelty  of  youth. 

"0,  by  the  way,"  he  called,  as  the  train  jolted 
into  motion:  "Don't  forget!  You  owe  me,  you 
know,  a  thousand  francs!" 


THE  EMERALD   OF  TAMERLANE* 

OYOU  cynical  man!"  cried  the  lady  from 
Pittsburgh.   She  had  wattles,  and  a  jewelled 
lorgnette  through  which  she  made  me  aware 
of  the  disadvantage  under  which  we  suffered  in  that 
day  and  generation  who  went  about  the  world  without 
shoulder-straps.    She  leaned  forward  a  little  in  order 
to  obtain  a  better  view  of  those  worn  by  Mrs.  Ma- 
turin's  General. 

"Heavens!"  I  protested.  "Do  you  think  me  as 
young  as  that?  A  cynic  is  a  doggish  person,  who 
snarls.  Now  I  may  be  a  dog,  but  at  bottom  I  am  as 
sentimental  as  a  school-girl.  At  the  same  time  I 
can't  help  noticing  that  people  are  very  seldom  of 
one  piece.  And  I  understand  them  better  if  I  put 
together,  or  take  apart,  the  different  pieces.  Be 
sides,  what  people  do  is  not  often  important.  What 
may  be  important  are  their  reasons  for  doing  it. 
Don't  you  think?" 

She  didn't.  A  waiter,  bearing  away  her  oyster 
shells,  widened  the  breach  between  us.  Across  it  the 
lady  from  Pittsburgh  confided  to  me  that  her  hus 
band,  also  without  shoulder-straps,  who  sat  at  the 
left  of  our  hostess,  was  in  his  quiet  way  working  for 

*  Written  in  collaboration  with  John  Taylor. 

221 


222    THE   EMERALD   OF  TAMERLANE 

Uncle  Sam.  I  asked  myself  if  her  phrase  did  not 
perhaps  contain  an  unnecessary  preposition.  For 
although  half  an  hour  before  I  had  never  heard  of 
her,  I  had  heard  of  him.  He  was  one  of  those  gentle 
men  so  plentiful  in  Washington  just  then,  full  of 
good  advice  for  the  Government,  and  a  little  uneasy 
lest  their  particular  good  thing  be  looked  into  by 
some  inquisitive  commission.  What  his  particular 
thing  was  I  am  too  discreet  to  mention;  but  it  was 
good  enough  to  keep  his  wife's  wattles  in  the  pink, 
not  to  say  the  purple,  of  condition,  and  to  set  them 
off  by  a  quite  rococo  display  of  diamonds.  They 
confirmed  me  anew  in  an  old  persuasion  of  mine  that 
a  diamond  is  a  stone  for  a  chambermaid — and  not  for 
those  rare  members  of  that  oppressed  profession  who 
are  as  good  as  gold. 

I  should  say  for  the  lady  from  Pittsburgh  that  this 
reflection  probably  came  to  me  because  fate,  general 
ly  readier  with  a  surprise  than  with  a  piece  of  good 
fortune,  had  put  at  my  other  side  the  famous  Miss 
Sanderson — or  the  famous  Mrs.  Maturin,  as  she  is 
now.  She  had  in  her  hair  some  of  those  perfect 
emeralds  which  are  the  only  jewels  she  ever  wears. 
She  explains  that  she  has  to,  because  she  was  born 
in  May  and  because  a  romantic  parent  took  it  into 
his  head  to  name  her  Esmeralda.  Her  explanation 
would  be  less  convincing  if  the  same  individual  had 
not  bequeathed  her  a  dot  as  melodramatic  as  her 
name.  Who  bequeathed  her  that  aureole  of  smoulder 
ing  bronze  hair — of  the  kind  you  read  about  in  the 


THE  EMERALD  OF  TAMERLANE    223 

short-story  magazines,  but  never  see — it  is  not  for 
me  to  say.  In  such  cases  one  usually  suspects  the 
beauty  doctor.  But  no  beauty  doctor  could  achieve 
that  ivory  skin,  or  those  grey-green  eyes  which — 
Well,  they  were  so  much  more  lyric  than  I  remem 
bered  that  I  myself  could  almost  break  out  in  the 
most  approved  magazine  manner  about  moonlit 
pools  in  mountain  forests,  etc.  So  if  the  lady  from 
Pittsburgh  considered  me  an  ill-natured  dog,  I  count 
ed  myself  a  lucky  one,  after  all.  Not  that  Mrs.  Ma- 
turin  is  witty,  or  rich  in  recondite  stores  of  gossip. 
But  then,  she  needs  no  such  adventitious  attrac 
tions.  She  has  only  to  enter  a  room  to  have  all  eyes 
rest  upon  her  with  the  tranquil  pleasure  that  is  given, 
say,  by  an  orchid  in  an  old  silver-gilt  vase. 

In  furtively  giving  myself  that  pleasure,  amid  the 
chatter  about  food  conservation  which  went  on  above 
a  delicious  terrapin  soup,  it  amused  me  to  recall  the 
last  time  I  had  seen  Mrs.  Maturin,  there  on  the 
other  side  of  the  world — Miss  Sanderson  as  she  was 
then.  Whereupon  she  suddenly  paid  me  the  compli 
ment  of  turning  away  from  her  General  long  enough 
to  say  in  a  low  voice: 

"I  got  it,  you  know.  I'll  tell  you  about  it  when  I 
get  a  chance.  I  haven't  forgotten  that  I  really  owe 
it  to  you.  And  it  gave  me  Peter." 

At  the  moment  I  was  dull  enough  to  wonder  what 
she  meant.  For  I  had  imagined  that  her  fortune 
had  given  her  Peter.  But  as  she  turned  back  to  the 
General  she  bent  forward  a  little  toward  Peter,  across 


224    THE  EMERALD   OF  TAMERLANE 

the  table,  and  I  saw  his  eyes  light  up  as  they  looked 
for  hers.  It  was  pretty  to  see,  at  that  table  where 
diamonds  lit  up  double  chins  and  pouched  eyes 
from  which  all  fire  had  long  since  faded.  And  no 
fortune  could  have  bought  that.  It  simply  is  not 
in  the  market. 

Even  as  I  told  myself  so,  however,  Peter's  expres 
sion  changed  so  abruptly,  as  he  caught  me  looking 
at  him,  with  so  little  of  pride  and  triumph  in  his  eye, 
that  I  could  not  help  asking  myself  if  I  had  misread 
his  radio  message.  Was  it  conceivable  that  any 
dramatic  complication  of  the  human  comedy  could 
lie  in  wait  among  the  lights  and  flowers  of  so  polite 
a  dinner-party?  At  any  rate,  nothing  but  an  S.  0. 
S.  could  have  the  passion  of  Peter's  look,  if  it  were 
not  such  a  look  as  I  first  fancied.  Yet  why  on  earth 
should  Peter  be  going  down  with  all  on  board — now, 
at  our  comfortable  Shoreham,  in  our  safe  Washing 
ton,  before  the  lovely  eyes  of  his  well-dowered  Es- 
meralda?  And  if  by  any  chance  he  was,  what  could 
she  do  to  save  him? 

I  paid  for  these  untimely  and  fantastic  rumina 
tions  by  finding  that  the  lorgnette  of  the  lady  from 
Pittsburgh  was  no  longer  turned  in  my  direction.  It 
now  glittered  upon  young  Rodman  of  the  Intelligence 
Service,  at  her  right,  who  had  been  the  means  of  her 
making  that  ever  delightful  discovery  with  regard  to 
the  smallness  of  the  world.  At  my  left  Beauty  and 
Valour  were  already  deep  in  the  war.  As  for  myself, 
whom  fate  has  seen  fit  to  withhold  from  the  paths  of 


THE  EMERALD   OF  TAMERLANE    225 

glory,  and  upon  whom  two  great  ladies  now  turned  a 
sufficiently  unflattering  pair  of  backs,  I  was  not  too 
piqued  to  be  grateful  for  a  moment  in  which  to  turn 
over  the  case  of  Peter  and  Mrs.  Peter. 

Yes,  Mrs.  Maturin  was  right.  I  suppose  I  had, 
after  all,  given  her  Peter.  At  any  rate,  I  had  acci 
dentally  set  in  motion  the  series  of  events  that  ended 
in  so  eugenic  a  marriage.  I  have  lived  long  enough, 
however,  to  learn  that  it  is  never  safe  to  say  where  a 
series  of  events  has  ended.  And  knowing  Peter  far 
far  better  than  I  knew  his  wife,  I  could  not  help  won 
dering  whether  the  condition  of  equilibrium  which 
had  been  arrived  at  were  a  stable  one.  Still,  there 
had  been  that  look  across  the  table.  And  larger  for 
tunes  than  Mrs.  Maturin's  have  been  spent  on  ob 
jects  less  worthy  than  Peter.  He  was  young:  I 
fancy  a  little  younger  than  his  Esmeralda.  He  was 
tall  and  well  made.  He  was  very  nearly  as  good- 
looking  in  his  way  as  she  was  in  hers.  He  was  no 
fool,  either.  He  could  ride,  he  could  shoot,  he  could 
play  every  imaginable  game — though  somehow  he 
could  never  carry  off  the  stakes.  And  he  was  enough 
of  an  engineer,  or  a  mineralogist,  or  whatever  an  oil 
man  needs  to  be,  for  an  English  company  to  send  him 
out  to  Persia,  of  all  places,  to  tap  rocks  and  drill 
holes  for  their  dark  operations.  The  only  thing 
was—  Well,  I  wondered  whether  he  would  prove 
completely  satisfactory  as  a  husband.  But  then, 
perhaps  it  is  not  the  truly  good  young  man  who  is 
most  adored. 


226    THE  EMERALD  OF  TAMERLANE 

Peter,  when  I  met  him  in  Tehran,  seemed  by  no 
means  one  of  the  truly  good.  I  do  not  say  it  in  dis 
paragement;  for  I  have  noticed,  in  this  ironic  world, 
that  the  truly  good  seem  as  capable  of  making  a 
botch  of  their  own  and  other  people's  lives  as  the 
rest  of  us,  while  the  prodigal  son  appears  to  enjoy  an 
undue  share  of  immortality.  Be  that  as  it  may,  the 
sight  of  Peter  across  the  table,  chatting  with  the 
Honourable  Miss  Windham,  brought  it  incongruously 
back  to  me  that  the  first  time  I  ever  saw  him  was 
much  later  in  the  evening  than  this,  between  the 
shafts  of  a  pre-historic  victoria  which  he,  together 
with  a  young  Russian  attach^  and  a  couple  of  youths 
whom  I  took  to  be  Telegraph,  was  trundling  down 
the  Lalazar,  as  it  were  the  Pennsylvania  Avenue  of 
Tehran,  with  every  sign  of  enjoyment.  Who  was  in 
the  victoria  I  don't  know.  Certainly  not  Mrs.  Ma- 
turin,  then. 

I  afterward  heard —  in  those  places,  you  know,  one 
hears  everything  about  everybody — that  although 
theoretically  prospecting  for  oil  among  the  moun 
tains  of  Kurdistan,  he  was  for  the  moment  persona 
non  grata  in  that  temperamental  land,  where  his  in 
vestigations  had  included  the  wearers  of  veils.  How 
ever,  he  was  distinctly  persona  grata  with  M.  Godet, 
the  French  hotel-keeper,  who  does  so  much  for  the 
local  colour  of  Tehran.  While  there  are  a  good  many 
young  men  there,  what  with  the  Legations,  the 
Bank,  the  Telegraph,  and  what  not,  and  while  be 
tween  one  estate  and  another  are  there  great  gulfs 


THE  EMERALD  OF  TAMERLANE    227 

fixed,  in  the  most  approved  metropolitan  manner, 
the  young  men  vastly  outnumber  the  young  women 
of  their  own  sort  or  of  any  other  sort,  for  that  mat 
ter.  And  there  are  fewer  things  for  them  to  do  than 
in  larger  and  less  exotic  capitals.  They  therefore 
give  themselves  with  the  more  zest  to  such  simple 
distractions  as  may  be  found  in  any  mining-camp. 
And  one  of  their  favourite  distractions  is  to  sack  M. 
Godet's  hotel.  M.  Godet  takes  these  periodical  de 
vastations  very  philosophically.  I  suspect,  in  fact, 
that  he  rather  counts  on  them — in  a  country  where 
travellers  are  rare  and  of  the  less  pecunious,  if  of  the 
more  adventurous,  sort,  such  as  military  men,  rug- 
buyers,  missionaries,  and  music-hall  artists.  As  for 
the  young  men,  certain  among  them  are  mortgaged 
to  M.  Godet  for  life.  It  is  quite  a  recognised  institu 
tion  of  Tehran.  The  Legation,  or  the  Bank,  or  the 
Telegraph,  goes  bond  for  its  particular  young  man, 
and  he  goes  without  everything  but  pilau  enough  to 
keep  him  at  his  desk  until  he  is  square  with  M. 
Godet.  Peter,  being  an  outsider,  might  have  fared 
more  hardly  if  I  had  not  been  foolish  enough,  as  a  fel 
low-countryman,  to  sign  my  name  to  a  certain  scrap 
of  paper  drawn  up  between  him  and  M.  Godet.  True, 
the  wisdom  of  my  folly  had  very  soon  been  proved 
by  the  tearing  up  of  that  scrap  of  paper,  not  long 
after  Peter's  departure,  by  M.  Godet  himself.  But 
the  transaction  enlightened  me  not  a  little  on  such 
topics  as  the  budget  of  the  Hotel  de  Paris,  the  price 
of  glass  in  Persia,  etc.  '  For  Peter,  they  said,  when 


228    THE  EMERALD   OF  TAMERLANE 

he  became  a  little  exalted,  cried  out  for  air,  and  he 
never  could  wait  to  open  the  windows.  He  preferred 
to  pitch  the  furniture  at  them.  He  never  killed  any 
body  who  happened  to  be  passing  below. 

So  you  see  there  were  reasons  for  my  liking  Peter. 
There  was  something  honest  and  human  about  him. 
We  all  have  impulses  to  throw  furniture,  but  not 
many  of  us  have  the  courage  of  our  convictions. 
Still,  I  had  never  dreamed  that  Peter  would  turn  out 
so  much  the  hero  of  a  fairy-tale  as  to  marry  the  mirac 
ulous  Miss  Sanderson.  She  turned  up  in  Tehran, 
too,  a  year  or  two  after  the  war  broke  out,  with  a 
French  maid  and  a  mongrel  Caucasian  courier.  The 
war  had  caught  her  in  Vladikavkaz,  Kisliavodsk, 
one  of  those  watering-places  in  the  Caucasus.  She 
had  stayed  on  in  Russia,  waiting  for  the  war  to  stop, 
till  she  made  up  her  mind  that  the  longest  way 
around  was  the  shortest  way  home.  And  she  sailed 
into  the  Legation  one  day,  with  a  letter  from  the 
Embassy  at  Petrograd,  desiring  to  be  presented  at 
court  and  to  be  shown  the  Peacock  Throne. 

It  is  hard  to  deny  the  requests  of  beautiful  ladies. 
The  requests  of  Miss  Sanderson  were  peculiarly  im 
possible,  because,  in  the  first  place,  ladies  are  not 
presented  at  court  in  Persia,  as  they  are  in  more 
modern  monarchies,  and  because,  in  the  second  place, 
there  happens  to  be  no  Peacock  Throne.  There  was 
one  once,  with  a  history  as  wonderful  as  its  canopy 
of  jewelled  peacocks,  of  which  there  remains  nothing 
but  a  doubtful  modern  fragment.  And  there  is  now 


THE   EMERALD  OP  TAMERLANE    229 

another,  whose  name  refers  not  to  its  decoration, 
but  to  a  certain  Madam  Peacock  who  adorned  the 
harem  of  Fat'h  Ali  Shah.  These  facts  were  set  forth 
at  considerable  length,  many  years  ago,  in  his 
important  work  on  Persia,  by  Lord  Curzon  of  Kedle- 
ston.  But  if  every  other  traveller  always  demanded 
a  sight  of  the  Peacock  Throne,  and  always  went 
away  doubting  our  account  of  the  matter,  how  could 
eyes  so  romantic  as  those  of  Miss  Sanderson  be  ex 
pected  to  waste  themselves  on  the  closely  printed 
and  none  too  thrilling  pages  of  an  ex- Viceroy  of 
India?  So  I  contented  myself  by  pointing  out 
to  Miss  Sanderson  that  the  Peacock  Throne  had 
not  been  visible  since  the  coronation  of  young 
Ahmed  Shah,  and  that  Tehran  was  full  of  dark 
rumours  as  to  its  having  been  sold,  together  with 
many  other  magnificent  things  belonging  to  the 
Persian  crown.  In  the  third  place,  however,  the 
requests  of  the  lovely  Esmeralda  were  in  particular 
impossible  because  of  the  moment  which  she  chose 
for  making  them.  It  was  the  moment  when  the 
rivers  of  German  gold  poured  out  in  Persia  had 
begun  to  produce  their  effect.  The  Holy  War  had 
been  preached,  the  banks  in  the  south  had  been 
looted,  the  gendarmes  had  gone  over  to  the  enemy 
after  their  Swedish  officers,  the  battle  of  Kengaver 
had  been  fought,  and  Kermanshah  and  Hamadan 
had  been  taken  by  the  Turks.  Even  in  Tehran  things 
were  beginning  to  look  very  funny.  I  therefore  urged 
Miss  Sanderson  to  return  to  Russia  while  she  could 


230    THE  EMERALD  OF  TAMERLANE 

and  get  home  via  Sweden  or  Siberia.  As  for  going 
to  India  by  way  of  the  Gulf,  it  was  out  of  the  ques 
tion. 

All  the  same,  she  did  it!  Impossible,  I  suppose,  is 
a  word  not  to  be  found  in  the  dictionaries  of  lovely 
ladies  who  all  their  lives  have  seen  the  most  obdurate 
doors  fly  open  before  them.  And  this  lovely  lady 
evidently  had  her  share  of  the  resolution,  or  of  a  cer 
tain  indifference  to  the  realities  of  life,  for  which  her 
sex  is  noted.  Not  that  she  took  anybody  into  her 
confidence — except  Peter.  Him  she  also  took  with 
her,  to  the  vast  amusement  of  Tehran,  for  whom  the 
fantasies  of  the  American  virgin  upon  her  travels 
are  still  more  or  less  a  novelty.  The  gossip  was  that 
she  had  discharged  her  courier  and  taken  Peter  on 
instead.  Everybody  knew  that  poor  Peter  was  hard 
up.  At  any  rate,  I  happened  to  know  that  he  and 
Miss  Sanderson  had  never  heard  of  each  other  until 
I  introduced  them,  shortly  before  they  disappeared. 
And  that  introduction  was  merely  an  accident. 
On  such  careless  threads  do  hang  the  destinies 
of  men! 

As  I  considered  it,  eyeing  the  correct  and  opulent 
Peter,  who  now  looked  secure  against  the  accidents 
of  life,  I  had  to  scratch  my  head  to  recall  just  how 
we  had  turned  so  successful  a  trick,  Providence  and 
I.  Oh,  yes:  an  emerald,  of  course.  Miss  Sanderson 
had  not  taken  me  very  seriously  at  first,  and  had  gone 
over  my  head  to  the  Chief  and  then  to  the  Russians. 
She  had  letters  to  them,  too.  But  a  few  days  later, 


THE  EMERALD   OF  TAMERLANE    231 

when  I  ran  across  her  at  the  French  Legation,  she 
said  she  had  about  made  up  her  mind  to  take  my  ad 
vice.  Persia  was  too  disappointing,  what  with  the 
dirt  and  the  ugliness  and  the  discomfort  and  the 
obstacles  everybody  put  in  the  way  of  her  seeing  the 
sights,  if  there  really  were  any.  She  had  even  been 
unable  to  find  anything  in  the  Bazaar. 

I  explained  to  her  that  in  Persia  nobody  goes  shop 
ping  in  bazaars,  if  antiques  were  what  she  was  after. 
The  only  thing  was  to  get  hold  of  a  go-between,  a 
sort  of  broker  who  has  ways  of  getting  into  Persian 
houses  and  of  getting  out  the  treasures  some  of  them 
contain. 

"Then  find  me  one/'  she  promptly  recommended. 

It  appeared  that  she  didn't  want  rugs  or  tiles  or 
miniatures  or  any  of  the  other  things  that  most  peo 
ple  take  from  Persia.  She  wanted  an  emerald,  and 
a  much  better  one  than  she  had  seen  in  the  shops. 
It  was  then  that  I  first  heard  of  her  fancy  for  emer 
alds.  She  had  one  that  belonged  to  Marie  Antoi 
nette.  She  had  another  that  came  from  the  magnifi 
cent  collection  of  Abd-iil-Hamid.  Why  shouldn't  she 
have  a  third  out  of  the  treasury  in  Tehran — if  the 
Shah's  jewels  were  really  being  sold?  If  I  wouldn't 
show  her  the  Peacock  Throne,  I  might  at  least  get 
her  a  go-between.  The  notion  seemed  to  tickle  her 
enormously,  and  she  refused  to  be  frightened  by  my 
warnings  that  she  would  have  to  keep  her  eyes  very 
wide  open  and  pay  any  number  of  commissions  with 
out  knowing  it,  including  a  good  fat  one  for  me. 


232    THE  EMERALD  OF  TAMERLANE 

So  it  was  that  I  handed  her  over  to  Peter.  Not 
that  Peter  was  the  go-between.  The  go-between 
was  a  picturesque  character  known  in  Tehran  as  the 
Adorner  of  the  Monarchy.  The  Adorner  of  the 
Monarchy,  otherwise  one  Yeprem  Khan,  is  really  an 
Armenian,  I  believe.  Just  how  he  came  to  merit  his 
flowery  Persian  title  I  cannot  say — unless  by  virtue  of 
his  decorative  beard,  which  he  dyes  purple  with 
henna.  Or  perhaps  it  is  because  out  of  his  back  shop 
in  Tiflis,  which  is  his  true  headquarters,  come  most 
of  the  Rhages  jars  which  adorn  the  collections  of 
Europe  and  America.  At  any  rate,  the  Adorner  of 
the  Monarchy  is  one  of  the  greatest  artists  and  most 
unmitigated  rascals  in  Asia.  There  is  very  little  in 
the  way  of  Saracenic  antiquities  which  the  old  scare 
crow  cannot  turn  out  of  that  mysterious  back  shop 
of  his  in  Tiflis,  though  he  specialises  in  pre-Sefevian 
pottery.  The  only  trouble  with  it  is  that  some  of  it 
is  genuine.  For  in  that  sort  of  thing  the  Adorner  of 
the  Monarchy  has  the  scent  of  a  bloodhound.  rAnd 
he  sticks  that  sanguine  beard  of  his  into  every  cor 
ner  of  western  Asia  where  there  may  be  battle, 
revolution,  or  sudden  death,  seeking  what  he  may 
devour.  Wherefore,  I  suppose,  did  he  happen  to  be 
there  in  Tehran  when  we  wanted  him. 

Of  course  if  it  had  been  something  really  nice  Miss 
Sanderson  was  after,  like  an  eleventh-century  bowl 
or  a  miniature  by  Behzad,  she  would  have  been  a 
lost  woman.  As  it  was,  she  knew  a  good  deal  more 
about  emeralds  than  the  Adorner  of  the  Monarchy. 


THE  EMERALD  OF  TAMERLANE    233 

I  could  as  easily  have  conceived  him  taking  an  in 
terest  in  Mission  furniture.  The  point  was  that  those 
clairvoyant  eyes  of  his,  as  black  and  deep  as  Avernus, 
yet  humourously  three-cornered,  could  find  anything 
for  anybody.  They  even  say  he  was  the  one  who 
found  that  French  countess  for  Prince  Salar-es- 
Somebody.  However,  for  extra  precaution  I  called  in 
Peter.  There  were  half  a  dozen  obvious  enough  rea 
sons  why  he  was  a  better  man  for  Miss  Sanderson's 
affair  than  I,  the  most  important  being  that  I  had 
something  else  to  think  about  just  then  than  trinkets 
for  beautiful  ladies.  Things  had  already  been  look 
ing  rather  funny  behind  the  scenes  in  Tehran.  They 
got  funnier  until  that  day  when  the  fat  little  Shah 
was  stopped  in  the  nick  of  time  from  running  away 
to  Isfahan  and  the  Germans.  His  valuables  had 
gone,  his  bodyguard  had  gone,  he  himself  was  on  the 
point  of  going,  when  the  British  and  Russian  minis 
ters  demanded  even  more  insistently  than  Miss  San 
derson  an  audience  with  him.  Precisely  what  they 
said  to  him  has  yet  to  be  published,  though  we  got 
a  fairly  reliable  version  of  it  before  night.  But  the 
Shah  did  not  go  to  Isfahan. 

Peter  and  Miss  Sanderson  did,  however.  The  first 
definite  news  we  had  of  them  was  from  there,  in  a 
note  of  Peter's  that  came  through  as  soon  as  the  Rus 
sians  had  cleared  the  road.  Not  that  the  note 
brought  any  real  news.  It  merely  contained  an  in- 
closure  for  M.  Godet  and  laconic  thanks  for  my  own 
part  in  that  affair.  Nor  did  we  hear  anything  more 


234    THE   EMERALD  OF  TAMERLANE 

about  our  enterprising  pair  before  I  had  to  leave 
Tehran  myself.  And  here  I  had  run  into  them  again, 
alive  and  married,  in  Washington !  It  was  a  common 
enough  whirligig  of  life,  but  I  was  simple  enough  to 
be  amused  by  it.  I  wished  that  blessed  General 
would  hurry  up  with  his  National  Army.  In  the 
meantime  I  speculated  as  to  which  of  Mrs.  Matu 
ring  emeralds  was  the  Persian  one.  That,  of  course, 
must  have  been  what  she  meant  she  owed  me.  What 
interested  me  more,  though,  was  how  they  had 
managed  to  get  through  the  Turkish  lines,  and  how 
long  it  had  taken  them  to  get  married.  They  must 
have  had  adventures,  those  two. 

If  life  were  like  stories,  Esmeralda  would  at  this 
point  have  turned  back  to  me  and  have  taken  up  her 
part  in  these  reminiscences,  or  I  would  have  prepared 
for  it  by  shouting  across  the  table  at  Peter.  But 
both  these  young  people  were  otherwise  occupied, 
while  the  lady  from  Pittsburgh  continued  to  be  en 
grossed  in  Rodman  and  his  aunts.  I  therefore  plied 
my  fork  in  undistinguished  silence,  outwardly  try 
ing  to  look  intelligent  and  inwardly  comparing  the 
Shoreham  with  the  Hotel  de  Paris.  If  one  was  rather 
better  appointed  and  the  other  a  little  livelier,  it 
would  be  hard  to  say  which  of  the  two  could  collect 
queerer  fish  out  of  the  seven  seas.  Washington  and 
Tehran,  for  that  matter,  are  a  good  deal  alike.  Neith 
er  quite  looks  its  part,  and  in  both  there  is  a  great 
deal  more  news  than  ever  comes  out  in  any  paper. 
I  would  not  swear,  either,  that  it  is  more  reliable  or 


THE  EMERALD  OF  TAMERLANE    235 

less  fantastic  in  one  capital  than  in  the  other.  What 
I  found  most  fantastic,  though,  was  that  I,  whose 
own  affairs  are  far  from  glittering,  should  turn  out  to 
be  a  sort  of  Harun-ar-Rashid,  carelessly  presenting 
a  capricious  lady  with  the  jewel  of  her  heart's  desire 
and  an  unfortunate  gentleman  with  a  fortune  and  a 
wife.  As  I  considered  it  I  began  to  feel  the  pride  of 
the  creator  in  his  handiwork.  After  all,  Providence 
needs  a  poke  now  and  then.  Even  Mr.  Belasco: 
would  he  do  as  well  for  us  in  that  new  play  to  which 
we  were  going  after  dinner?  Which  for  some  obscure 
reason  reminded  me  of  my  newly  married  cousin 
Millicent,  who  didn't  want  her  cook  to  make  friends 
with  the  cook  next  door  because  the  people  in  that 
house  were  Presbyterians.  And  so  on,  and  so  on. 

Dessert  was  in  sight  before  the  General  finished 
what  he  had  to  say  about  the  improvisation  of  the 
Air  Service,  whose  deficiencies  I  hope  he  overstated. 
He  then  pronounced  highly  enlightening  and  worthy 
of  being  brought  to  the  attention  of  the  M.  I.  D. 
Mrs.  Maturin's  report  of  the  military  preparations 
of  India  and  Japan — as  observed  from  the  port-holes 
of  ocean  greyhounds,  the  windows  of  first-class  com 
partments,  and  the  lobbies  of  the  best  hotels.  And 
at  last  Mrs.  Maturin  turned  to  me. 

"But  where  is  it?"  I  demanded,  beginning  with 
what  interested  me  least.  "Which  one  is  it?" 

It  was  her  turn  to  be  mystified,  having  been  occu 
pied  with  affairs  of  state  while  I  was  mooning  about 
her  and  Peter.  But,  noticing  that  my  eyes  were  on 


236    THE  EMERALD  OF  TAMERLANE 

the  points  of  green  light  in  her  bronze  hair,  she  came 
around  quickly  enough. 

"Oh,  it  isn't  there.  It's— it's  quite  a  story,"  she 
broke  off.  I  was  ready  to  believe  her.  But  dessert 
was  already  on,  and  I  hadn't  waited  all  that  time  to 
hear  the  threadbare  old  yarn  of  bargaining  in  Asia. 
"The  funny  part  of  it,"  Mrs.  Maturin  went  on,  "is 
that  I  saw  the  Peacock  Throne  after  all — thanks  to 
you."  She  leaned  toward  me  as  if  to  confide  the 
most  delightful  of  secrets.  "That's  where  I  got  my 
emerald." 

If  jaws  could  drop,  mine  would  have  crashed  into 
my  plate.  My  partnership  with  Providence  had 
gone  rather  farther  than  I  foresaw  if  it  had  been  the 
means  of  providing  the  lovely  Esmeralda  not  only 
with  a  historic  precious  stone,  but  with  one  from  a 
piece  of  furniture  which  does  not  exist.  I  began  to  feel 
vaguely  uneasy.  I  remembered  what  in  my  pride  of 
a  Harun-ar-Rashid  I  had  almost  forgotten,  that  look 
of  Peter's  across  the  table.  And  so  many  questions 
suddenly  surged  up  into  the  back  of  my  head  that  I 
again  asked  the  one  which  interested  me  least. 

"How  soon  did  you  young  people  make  up  your 
minds  to  get  married?  In  Tehran?" 

"Oh  dear  no!  It  wasn't  till  we  got  to  India.  And 
then  we  were  driven  into  it.  People  kept  making 
the  most  stupid  mistakes — insisting  on  giving  us  the 
same  room,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  Of  course  it  was 
a  mad  thing  to  do,  to  trail  off  like  that  with  a  man  I 
had  never  seen  or  heard  of  the  week  before.  But  I 


THE   EMERALD  OF  TAMERLANE    237 

was  just  wild  to  get  that  emerald.  And  Peter  was 
such  a  sport — not  like  the  rest  of  you  old  fogies  in 
Tehran.  And  then  out  there  in  Persia,  in  sight  of 
the  war,  things  didn't  look  just  as  they  would  here. 
We  had  no  end  of  a  time,  you  know.  I  wondered  af 
terward  that  I  ever  had  the  courage  to  go  through 
with  it.  But/'  she  added  irrelevantly,  "if  it  hadn't 
been  for  that,  I  would  have  gone  straight  to  Paris 
and  cut  Pierre  Loti's  throat!" 

"0!  la!  la!"  I  let  out,  marvelling  that  a  Mrs. 
Maturin  should  hold  an  unorthodox  literary  opinion. 
"Why  his?"  There  are  so  many  other  throats  that 
need  cutting  first. 

"Well,  he  is  such  an  awful  liar.  I  don't  know  why 
it  is  that  people  who  write  books  give  you  such  false 
impressions.  They  always  lead  you  to  expect  so 
much  colour  and  magnificence  in  the  East,  when  it 
is  mostly  dirt  and  fleas — or  worse." 

It  was  curious  that  a  lady  capable  of  discovering 
Kisliavodsk,  and  of  running  away  with  a  strange 
man  into  the  jaws  of  the  Germans,  should  be  incap 
able  of  seeing  Persia  through  her  own  eyes.  I  might 
have  pointed  out  to  her  that  if  the  readers  of  books 
have  made  up  their  minds  what  a  country  ought  to  be 
like,  the  most  candid  writers  of  books  have  small 
chance  against  them,  and  that  a  Pierre  Loti  will 
make  admirable  prose  out  of  the  most  unpromising 
material.  But  what  I  wanted  to  point  out  to  her  was 
that  books  at  least  get  on  with  their  stories  faster 
than  she  was  doing.  Instead  of  which  I  remarked: 


238    THE  EMERALD  OF  TAMERLANE 

"  The  Adorner  of  the  Monarchy  is  quite  a  charac 
ter,  isn't  he?  He  must  have  worked  the  oracle  very 
quickly,  for  you  to  have  scuttled  off  from  Tehran  as 
soon  as  you  did." 

She  smiled. 

"He  didn't  work  it  in  Tehran.  He  worked  it  in 
Kum.  That,  really,  was  how  Peter  happened  to  go 
with  us.  My  courier  refused  to  when  he  heard  about 
that  little  rumpus  the  Turks  were  stirring  up." 

"Kum!"  I  cried.  "Why  Kum,  of  all  earthly 
places?  I  never  heard  of  anybody  going  to  Kum 
except  on  a  pilgrimage  to  that  shrine." 

"Well,  that's  what  we  did." 

I  stared  at  her,  for  that  shrine  is  one  of  the  most 
sacred  spots  in  Persia.  It  is  the  last  resting-place  of 
Fatima  the  Immaculate,  granddaughter  I  don't  re 
member  how  many  times  great  of  the  Prophet,  and 
sister  of  the  Imam  Riza — who  flies  over  once  a  week 
from  his  own  more  famous  tomb  in  Meshed  to  visit 
her.  And  few  there  are,  of  Christian  birth,  that  is, 
who  have  seen  it. 

"You  look  as  if  you  didn't  believe  me,"  said  Mrs. 
Maturin.  "But  it  was  simple  enough.  Don't  you 
remember  how  the  Shah  tried  to  run  away  to  Isfa 
han,  and  how  he  sent  his  things  on  ahead  of  him? 
Well,  when  he  didn't  turn  up,  they  put  the  things 
into  the  shrine  at  Kum  for  safe  keeping.  The  Adorn 
er  of  the  Monarchy  happened  to  know  about  it. 
And  you  were  quite  right  about  the  Shah's  be 
ing  willing  to  sell  some  of  his  jewels.  That  was 


THE  EMERALD  OF  TAMERLANE    239 

how  we  happened  to  go  to  Kum.  Have  you  been 
there?" 

I  had  to  tell  her  that  having  spent  three  years 
within  walking  distance,  so  to  speak,  of  it,  I  had 
never  visited  it. 

"I  had  never  even  heard  of  it,"  she  was  frank 
enough  to  confess.  "But  it  was  more  like  Persia 
than  anything  else  I  saw.  We  had  to  go  in  disguise, 
you  know.  I  was  supposed  to  be  the  wife  of  the 
Adorner  of  the  Monarchy,  and  Peter  and  Claudine 
were  our  servants!  It  was  immense  fun.  But  that 
costume  is  horribly  stuffy,  I  assure  you.  And  I 
couldn't  half  see  anything  through  that  little  strip 
of  openwork  in  front  of  my  eyes." 

She  almost  left  me  speechless. 

"Perhaps,"  I  allowed  myself  to  suggest,  "that  was 
why  you  liked  it  so  much." 

"I  shouldn't  wonder,"  she  was  again  human 
enough  to  admit.  "  But  there's  really  a  lot  of  colour 
there,  besides  those  usual  horrid  mud  houses  and  flat 
roofs.  Miles  before  we  got  there  we  could  see  the 
dome  of  Fatima's  tomb  glittering  like  a  great  gold 
bubble  above  the  plain,  with  iridescent  mountains 
behind  it.  And  as  we  got  nearer  we  made  out  the  big 
turquoise  minarets  around  it,  and  smaller  domes  of 
peacock  tiles,  and  little  blue-and-green  tiled  pinna 
cles,  above  cream-coloured  walls.  You  have  no  idea 
how  attractive  it  was." 

That,  I  must  confess,  would  ordinarily  have  been 
enough  to  quench  my  interest.  When  beautiful  la- 


240    THE  EMERALD  OF  TAMERLANE 

dies  call  a  place  attractive,  the  game,  so  far  as  I  am 
concerned,  is  up.  But  this  was  a  different  game. 

"Did  you  really  go  into  the  shrine  itself?"  I  asked. 

"Of  course  we  did.  We  had  to,  to  carry  out  the 
comedy.  And  I  didn't  know  what  it  didn't  cost  us. 
They  were  dreadfully  afraid  we  would  betray  our 
selves  and  get  them  into  trouble.  They  whisked  us 
out  in  no  time.  I  got  only  the  vaguest  impression, 
through  my  strip  of  open-work,  of  a  dim-lighted  oc 
tagon,  and  a  catafalque  covered  with  cloth  of  gold 
behind  a  tall  silver  grille.  But  it  was  worth  it." 

I  was  grateful  to  them,  whoever  they  were,  for,  de 
laying  me  no  longer  than  necessary.  It  came  to  me 
a  little  enviously,  though,  that  beauty  and  gold  are 
indeed  magic  keys.  Also  that  dessert  was  disappear 
ing  all  too  rapidly.  Likewise  that  the  lady  from 
Pittsburgh  was  eyeing  Mrs.  Maturin  through  her 
lorgnette. 

"Then  they  took  us,"  the  latter  went  on,  "through 
a  porcelain  gateway  into  the  loveliest  little  cloister  I 
ever  saw — all  blue  and  green  tiles,  with  a  toy  river 
running  through  it,  in  a  channel  of  mossy  marble 
that  widened  in  the  centre  into  a  big  oblong  pool. 
Some  enormous  cypress-trees  were  reflected  in  it." 

I  thought  it  must  have  been  very  becoming  to  her. 
But  I  was  too  afraid  of  wasting  time  to  tell  her  so. 

"I  hoped  they  would  empty  the  pool  and  let  us 
into  a  secret  passage  at  the  bottom  of  it,  or  some 
thing  like  that.  But  they  took  us  through  a  high 
tiled  porch  at  one  end  of  the  court,  into  a  sort  of 


THE  EMERALD  OF  TAMERLANE    241 

apartment  where  the  Shah  stays  when  he  makes 
pilgrimages  to  the  shrine — all  plaster  arabesques, 
stuck  over  in  the  quaintest  way  with  bits  of  mirror 
glass/' 

"Was  it  there?"  I  asked  desperately,  perceiving 
signs  of  coffee. 

"Not  in  the  room  where  we  sat  down.  There  was 
nothing  but  rugs  and  couches.  They  served  us  tea 
and  candies  and  ices,  and  they  talked  about  the 
weather,  and  asked  how  many  children  Peter  and  I 
had.  They  were  frightfully  embarrassing.  And  at 
last,  one  at  a  time,  they  began  showing  us  things 
that  the  Shah  had  sent  there  and  wanted  to  sell." 

"Fancy!"  I  heard  from  my  right. 

"Some  of  them  were  quite  nice,"  said  Mrs.  Ma- 
turin.  "There  were  one  or  two  big  carpets,  and  a 
few  of  those  funny  old  books  full  of  gaudy  little  pic 
tures  that  look  like  nothing  on  earth,  touched  up 
with  gold.  Pottery,  too.  The  usual  bazaar  kind  of 
thing,  only  better  of  its  kind  than  usual.  Then  they 
showed  us  jewels — bowls  of  them!  They  were  noth 
ing  very  extraordinary,  though:  mostly  rubies  and 
pearls.  I  didn't  have  my  veil  down,  either,"  she 
added.  "They  let  me  put  it  off,  in  there.  But  I 
wouldn't  let  them  put  me  off,  even  when  they 
brought  out  two  or  three  good  enough  emeralds. 
The  Adorner  of  the  Monarchy — isn't  he  killing! — 
had  got  us  permission  to  see  the  Peacock  Throne,  and 
I  insisted  that  they  must  let  us  see  it.  So  at  last, 
very  unwillingly,  they  took  us  into  an  inner  room. 


242    THE  EMERALD  OF  TAMERLANE 

It  was  full  of  boxes  and  bundles,  piled  helter-skelter 
on  top  of  one  another.  They  cleared  off  some  of 
them  till  they  came  to  an  enormous  case,  which  they 
opened  with  the  most  ridiculous  little  adzes  you  ever 
saw.  And  out  of  it  they  pulled  a  mountain  of  paper 
and  old  silks.  But  under  them  all  was  the  throne." 

Her  voice  had  gradually  been  lifting,  and  by  this 
time  the  rest  of  the  table  was  silent.  What  came  to 
me  that  time  was  that  a  story  is  never  quite  the  same 
for  the  different  people  who  listen  to  it,  and  that  no 
one  there  could  possibly  be  listening  quite  so  intense 
ly  as  I — unless  it  were  Peter.  But  if  he  was  going 
down  with  all  on  board,  he  had  evidently  made  up 
his  mind  to  it.  I  caught  that  out  of  the  corner  of 
my  eye." 

"Did  you  sit  on  it?"  asked  the  General,  jovially. 

"Of  course  I  did!"  answered  Mrs.  Maturin.  "And 
it  was  as  uncomfortable  as  thrones  are  said  to  be. 
It  wasn't  a  chair  at  all,  but  a  kind  of  longish  plat 
form,  set  on  seven  curved  legs,  with  two  or  three 
steps  at  one  end.  There  was  a  balustrade  around 
the  platform,  with  enameled  inscriptions  in  car 
touches  outside  of  it,  and  a  high  back.  It  ended  in 
a  jewelled  peacock  with  an  outspread  tail  of  tur 
quoises,  sapphires,  and  emeralds.  But  the  most 
prodigious  emerald  of  all  was  set  in  his  breast." 

"No  diamonds?"  demanded  Pittsburgh. 

"None  that  I  remember,"  answered  Esmeralda, 
"except  in  the  peacock's  crest.  He  was  a  wonderful 
peacock,  but  somehow  he  didn't  look  to  me  quite  in 


THE  EMERALD  OF  TAMERLANE    243 

keeping  with  the  rest  of  the  throne.  And  sure 
enough,  the  Adorner  of  the  Monarchy  said  I  was 
right.  So  many  things  have  happened  to  that  throne 
in  all  the  centuries  it  has  gone  knocking  around 
Asia;  and  the  peacock  is  a  modern  restoration.  But 
there  isn't  a  particle  of  doubt  about  the  rest  of  it. 
Whatever  happens,  I  can  say  I  have  sat  on  the 
throne  of  Tamerlane!  He  began  it,  you  know.  And 
Jehan  Shah,  that  Indian  Mogul  who  built  the  Taj 
Mahal,  finished  it.  And  afterward  it  was  looted  from 
Agra  by —  Who  was  it?"  she  asked,  turning  to  me. 

"Nadir  Shah,  from  Delhi,  in  1739,"  I  replied  with 
more  particularity  than  perhaps  was  necessary. 
What  could  I  do?  I  couldn't,  before  all  those  people, 
point  out  that  her  history  and  her  throne  didn't  go 
together.  Yet  each  was  well  enough  in  its  way — ex 
cept  for  the  peacock.  That  I  had  never  seen  or  heard 
of.  But  she  had  not  been  taken  in  by  it.  After  all, 
I  breathed  more  freely.  Besides,  the  liqueurs  were 
being  passed. 

"Oh,  yes;  Nadir  Shah."  Mrs.  Maturin  took  green 
chartreuse.  "And  after  his  death  the  Kurds  got  hold 
of  it.  But  I  never  dreamed  of  anything  so  magnifi 
cent.  The  gold  and  enamel  of  the  throne  were  crust 
ed  with  precious  stones,  as  if  a  swarm  of  gorgeous 
tropical  beetles  had  descended  on  it.  Never  in  my 
life  have  I  seen  so  many  emeralds.  There  was  one 
splendid  one  on  the  right  arm,  uncut  and  very  deep 
in  colour,  where  the  hands  of  the  Shahs  and  the 
Moguls  and  Tamerlane  and  who  knows  how  many 


244    THE  EMERALD  OF  TAMERLANE 

other  kings  before  him  must  have  rested,  when  they 
were  granting  life  and  death  to  the  slaves  at  their  feet." 

"How  interesting!"  burst  out  the  lady  from  Pitts 
burgh.  "But  what  a  pity  you  didn't  see  it  in  the 
palace,  in  its  own  setting,  the  way  we  saw  the  throne 
of  the  Sultans  in  Constantinople!  The  ambassador 
happened  to  be  a  friend  of  my  husband's,  and  as  a 
very  special  favour  he  got  us  permission  to  see  the 
old  Seraglio." 

The  infamous  woman  had  the  floor,  and  she  didn't 
propose  to  relinquish  it  until  she  had  told  every  last 
detail  of  that  routine  experience  which  was  shared 
by  hundreds  of  tourists  every  year  before  the  war. 
I  could  have  cut  her  throat  much  more  easily  than 
Mrs.  Maturin  could  have  cut  Pierre  Loti's.  She  had 
spoiled  Mrs.  Maturin 's  story — how  utterly  nobody 
knew  better  than  I.  And  Peter's  impassive  coun 
tenance  told  me  nothing.  I  shamelessly  edged  over 
to  Mrs.  Peter. 

"Which  one  was  it?"  I  whispered.  "The  one  in 
the  peacock's  breast?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "Too  incredible!"  She 
looked  around  the  table,  where  everyone  but  the 
lady  from  Pittsburgh,  was  aware  that  it  was  time  to 
go  to  the  theatre.  The  General,  drumming  a  little 
on  the  cloth,  favoured  me  with  a  wink.  Mrs.  Ma 
turin  decided  to  whisper  back.  "The  one  on  the 
arm.  We  had  a  terrific  time  about  it.  They  nearly 
ruined  me  for  life.  Your  commission  must  have 
been  pretty  plump!  And  they  made  us  swear  the 


THE  EMERALD  OF  TAMERLANE    245 

most  awful  oaths  that  we  would  never  breathe  a 
a  word  as  long  we  lived.  Then  they  sent  us  packing 
that  night,  out  of  a  little  side  door,  where  our  car 
riage  was  waiting,  straight  to  Isfahan.  I  carried  it 
in  my  hand  all  the  way." 

"But  where  is  it?"  I  demanded.  "Why  on  earth 
didn't  you  wear  it  to-night  for  me  to  see?  Is  it  too 
precious?" 

She  hesitated  so  queerly  that  my  dormant  un 
easiness  stirred  anew. 

"  Of  course,  if  we  had  only  been  buying  an  emerald, 
we  could  have  found  one  quite  as  good,  and  for  far  less 
in  New  York;  though  Peter  insists  we  could  not. 
But  then,  this  was  not  an  ordinary  stone.  After  all, 
what  jewel  is,  if  you  know  its  history?  Peter  had  it 
beautifully  mounted  for  me — in  Agra,  in  sight  of  the 
Taj  Mahal.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  though,  it  doesn't 
look  worth  the  fortune  we  paid  for  it." 

"Nothing  does,"  I  said  as  much  to  myself  as  to 
her.  "Life  is  like  that.  It  is  the  pursuit  we  value, 
not  the  acquisition." 

"What  I  mean,"  she  explained,  "is  that  it  doesn't 
show  for  what  it  really  is.  Those  uncut  stones  never 
do,  you  know.  And  they  don't  go  with  modern 
clothes.  So  I  want  to  have  it  cut.  It's  the  only 
thing  on  which  we  differ,  Peter  and  I.  You  would 
never  guess  how  sentimental  he  is." 

I  somewhat  perfunctorily  began  to  assure  her  that 
sentiment  is  coming  into  fashion  again  when  our 
hostess  at  last  gave  her  signal,  and  we  all  stood  up. 


246    THE   EMERALD   OF  TAMERLANE 

In  the  moment  of  confusion  that  followed  I  saw 
Peter  join  his  wife.  I  also  saw,  as  I  pulled  away  the 
chair  of  the  lady  from  Pittsburgh,  that  she,  she  of  the 
wattles  and  the  diamonds,  and  not  the  lovely  Es- 
meralda,  had  been  the  one  to  save  Peter  this  time. 
In  fact,  I  saw  that  you  never  can  tell  when  life  will 
turn  dramatic  in  your  hands,  even  at  so  polite  a 
dinner-party  as  ours.  I  saw  it  the  more  distinctly 
because  it  was  so  invisible.  The  thing  was  "a  drama 
of  small,  smothered,  intensely  private  things,"  as 
Henry  James  says.  Nevertheless  it  made  me  im 
patient  of  the  play  for  which  we  were  already  late. 
Mr.  Belasco,  of  course,  would  arrange  everything 
very  much  better,  with  tears  and  smiles  in  their 
proper  order.  Here  everything  had  been  too  long 
drawn  out  in  the  beginning  and  too  much  jammed  at 
the  end.  The  end,  indeed,  was  just  what  was  lack 
ing,  now  that  Mrs.  Maturin  had  given  it  so  disquiet 
ing  a  twist— and  what  I  stood  small  chance  of  getting 
hold  of  in  that  confounded  box  at  the  Belasco. 

So  I  followed  the  others  out  of  the  dining-room, 
much  less  concerned  about  my  hat  than  about  the 
whimsicalities  of  playing  Harun-ar-Rashid.  Not 
that  I  minded  my  own  fix,  now  that  I  took  in  what 
it  might  mean  to  have  a  beautiful  lady  beholden  to 
one  for  an  emerald  of  Tamerlane.  The  worst  was 
that  they  might  think  I  really  had  taken  a  commission 
from  that  old  terror  in  Tehran.  Nor  could  I  feel  too 
sorry  for  Mrs.  Maturin.  I  had  done  my  best  for 
her,  and  I  had  given  her  due  warning.  If  she  had 


THE  EMERALD   OF  TAMERLANE    247 

been  taken  in,  if  she  had  paid  a  Shah's  ransom  for  a 
bit  of  green  paste  out  of  the  back  shop  of  the  Adorner 
of  the  Monarchy,  it  was  her  own  fault.  What  a 
magnificent  hoax,  though,  pulled  off  in  how  artistic 
a  manner !  Mr.  Belasco  himself  couldn't  have  staged 
it  better,  or  have  left  her  so  unaware  of  having  been 
taken  in.  And,  after  all,  she  could  afford  her  little 
caprices.  Besides  which,  she  had  Peter  to  show  for  it. 
He  was  more  of  a  jewel  than  perhaps  she  knew.  If 
she  didn't,  she  still  had  her  famous  eyes  and  her  fa 
mous  hair.  Those  were  genuine  enough  and  rare 
enough,  in  all  conscience,  and  nothing  could  rob  her 
of  them — except  time. 

But  Peter,  poor  old  Peter,  who  could  always  play 
a  game,  but  who  could  never  carry  off  the  stakes: 
what  would  time  do  for  him?  Peter  disturbed  me 
more  than  anything.  Had  he  been  taken  in,  too? 
Or — I  must  confess  I  was  black  enough  to  put  that 
question  to  myself — had  he  helped  to  take  Esmer- 
alda  in?  He  would  almost  have  been  justified  in 
doing  it,  hard  up  as  he  was  at  the  time.  In  any  case, 
he  must  have  come  in  for  a  very  tidy  little  commis 
sion.  Otherwise  how  could  he  possibly  have  squared 
M.  Godet  so  soon?  And  I  wondered  if  he  was  capable 
of  the  sentiment  with  which  his  wife  credited  him 
when  she  confided  to  me  that  he  didn't  want  the 
emerald  cut.  But  if  it  was  cut — there  could  be  no 
doubt  it  would  be  if  Mrs.  Maturin  had  so  made  up 
her  mind — and  if  the  historic  jewel  did  turn  out  to 
be  a  sham,  what  then?  Of  course  I  did  not  know  for 


248    THE  EMERALD  OF  TAMERLANE 

sure;  I  generally  do  jump  at  wrong  conclusions.  Still, 
it  was  a  very  pretty  little  predicament  even  if  the 
stone  was  genuine.  For— 

At  the  cloak-room  door  I  suddenly  felt  a  hand  in 
my  arm.  It  was  Peter's.  He  showed  no  trace  of  my 
self -consciousness . 

"Let's  walk  around  to  the  theatre,"  he  proposed. 
"A  breath  of  air  will  be  nice  after  all  that  cackle.  I 
have  told  Esmeralda.  She's  going  to  take  the  Gen 
eral  in  our  car.  Do  you  mind?" 

I  didn't.  As  for  Peter,  he  at  once  began  to  talk 
quite  naturally  about  Tehran.  It  amused  me,  on  H 
Street,  to  go  back  to  the  Lalazar.  My  news  was  a 
little  later  than  Peter's,  and  I  was  able  to  tell  him 
details  of  the  Turco- German  invasion,  the  recapture 
of  Hamadan,  the  adventures  of  several  of  our 
friends.  Half  a  dozen  of  the  young  men  he  had 
known  in  the  Hotel  de  Paris  had  already  met  their 
fates  in  France,  in  Macedonia,  in  Mesopotamia,  in 
Poland.  They  had,  at  any  rate — one  or  two  of  them 
— been  released  in  the  most  unexpected  of  ways 
from  their  obligations  to  M.  Godet.  M.  Godet  him 
self,  for  that  matter,  had  not  let  his  collection  of 
I.  0.  U.'s  stand  in  the  way  of  going  home  and  taking 
his  own  part  in  Armageddon. 

These  matters  kept  us  from  turning  down  to  the 
Belasco  when  we  reached  the  corner  of  Lafayette 
Square.  We  compromised  by  striking  into  it. 
And  presently  Peter  announced: 

"I  have  enlisted,  too — in  the  Aviation.     They 


THE  EMERALD   OF  TAMERLANE    249 

took  me  this  afternoon.  I'm  on  the  ragged  edge 
of  being  too  old  for  it;  but  I'm  as  fit  as  a  fiddle, 
and  I  passed  all  those  whirligig  things  they  put  you 
through  better  than  any  of  the  youngsters." 

No  one,  of  course,  is  any  longer  surprised  by  any 
thing.  I  heard  myself  make  the  usual  remarks, 
with  a  wave  of  my  hand  toward  Lafayette  and 
Rochambeau,  standing  on  their  pedestals  among 
the  Washington  trees.  Peter  smiled  a  little. 

"I  don't  know  very  much  about  right  and  wrong, 
and  our  debt  to  France,  and  all  the  rest  of  it;  but 
I'm  not  used  to  being  a  quiet  family  man,  you  know, 
and  you  feel  like  a  fool  rolling  around  here  in  a 
limousine  while  over  there " 

He  broke  off  abruptly,  drawing  me  in  the  direction 
of  our  theatre.  He  might  be  fit  as  a  fiddle,  but  it 
struck  me  as  I  glanced  at  him  under  an  electric  light 
that  he  looked  worn — as  if,  perhaps,  he  had  been  re 
quired  to  produce  itemised  accounts,  and  had  found 
it  difficult.  He  had  nothing  of  his  own,  not  even  the 
oil  company  now,  and  with  the  best  possible  inten 
tions  there  seemed  no  likelihood  of  his  obtaining 
anything  commensurate  with  his  position  as  the  hus 
band  of  Mrs.  Maturin.  Charming  as  his  wife  was, 
I  should  expect  to  find  her  a  rather  precise  pay 
master.  That  was  an  element  of  the  situation  which 
I  had  not  taken  in  at  first  in  considering  what  we  had 
brought  about,  Providence  and  I.  At  any  rate, 
Peter  would  never  be  able  to  slide  the  bill  for  an  ex 
tremely  large  and  perfectly  cut  emerald  into  his 


250    THE  EMERALD  OF  TAMERLANE 

postage  account — the  less  so  as  I  don't  suppose  he 
wrote  three  letters  a  year.  But  long  before  our 
winding  path  brought  us  back  to  the  street  I  had 
absolved  him.  If  he  had  sowed  his  wild  oat  or  two, 
he  had  never  been  a  cad.  He  could  not  have  known, 
poor  wretch,  what  he  was  letting  himself  in  for.  He 
had  never  been  one  to  go  smelling  around  antiquity 
shops.  He  had  not  known  until  he  took  the  emerald 
to  be  mounted.  And  after  the  commission,  the 
emerald  must  have  become  a  thing  too  terrific  to 
explain.  Had  the  marriage  been,  perhaps,  an  at 
tempt  at  reparation  which  might  not  succeed?  At 
any  rate,  Peter  had  always  needed  air  in  moments 
of  exaltation.  Well,  he  would  get  it.  He  would  no 
doubt  get  medals,  too.  They  made  me,  as  we  saunt 
ered  toward  our  belated  theatre-party,  a  sufficiently 
telling  picture.  I  seemed  to  see,  against  a  back 
ground  of  sanguine  mist,  with  perhaps  a  white  wooden 
cross  visible  in  it,  the  image  of  a  Mrs.  Maturin  no 
longer  young,  fingering  an  emerald  now  never  to  be 
cut,  which  was  all  that  was  left  to  her  of  the  most 
romantic  episode  of  her  life.  But  what  I  saw  most 
clearly  was  that  life  is  an  egregiously  jumbled-up 
mess,  and  that  many  nameless  things,  not  to  be  men 
tioned  in  official  histories,  must  lie  behind  the  mo 
mentous  decisions  of  life.  And  then  at  last  we 
reached  the  lighted  doorway  of  the  theatre.  For 
some  reason  or  other  we  both  hesitated  to  go  in  and 
admire  the  well-arranged  passions  and  admirable 
upholstery  of  Mr.  Belasco. 


THE  EMERALD  OF  TAMERLANE    251 

"That  was  a  rum  affair  you  started  us  off  on, 
wasn't  it?"  Peter  suddenly  exclaimed.  "But,  after 
all,  it  was  only  fair  that  you  should  hear  the  rest  of 
the  story.  Did  my  wife  tell  you  the  end?  " 

I  hedged. 

"She  told  me  that  she  got  the  emerald."  But  I 
found  the  courage  to  add:  "She  also  told  me  that 
she  was  debating  whether  to  have  it  cut." 

"  Oh,  did  she?  "  uttered  Peter,  slowly.  "  Well,  you 
know  how  women  are.  They  hate  to  come  to  a  de 
cision.  So  I  decided  myself.  I  made  up  my  mind 
this  morning  to  end  the  thing  and  take  it,  after  all, 
to  the  jeweller." 

"I  hope,"  ventured  I,  "that  the  jeweller  was 
properly  impressed  with  the  emerald  of  Tamerlane. 
What  did  he  say?" 

Peter  threw  away  his  cigarette  and  started  into 
the  lobby. 

"  He  had  nothing  to  say.  When  I  got  there  I  found 
my  pocket  had  been  picked.  It's  the  more  awkward 
because  I  can't  help  wondering  if  someone  in  the 
recruiting  office  didn't  nab  it  when  I  was  taking  my 
physical  examination.  I  hardly  like  to  accuse  any 
one  there,  especially  at  such  a  time  as  this.  But  I 
don't  know  how  I  shall  tell  my  wife.  I  was  so  late  get 
ting  home  that  she  went  on  to  the  dinner  without  me. 
She'll  be  frightfully  upset.  And  you  know  what  the 
police  are.  I'm  afraid  we  shall  never  see  it  again. 
Heavens!  Look  at  that  clock!" 


V 


STUDIO  SMOKE 

Voi  non  mi  amate  ed  io  non  vi  amo.    Pure 
qualche  dolcezza  e  ne  la  nostra  vita 
da  ieri.    ... 

— Gabriele  D'Annunzio:  POEMA  PARADISIACO. 

THAT  business  of  yours,  Gimlet,  of  a  thing  fall 
ing  so  exactly  on  the  tick,  was  rather  curious. 
I  have  an  idea,  though,  that  it  happens  oftener 
than  people  might  think.    I've  seen  some  queer  ex 
amples  of  it  myself.    I  remember  one  in  particular. 
Not  that  it's  anything  of  a  story.    It's  merely  a  whiff 
of  a  story:  you  make  it  up  to  suit  yourself.    And  the 
coincidence,  now  that  I  stop  and  think,  was  perhaps 
the  least  of  it!    But— 

I  was  up  in  Alaska  at  the  time.  I've  poked  about 
a  bit  in  my  day,  you  know,  and  I  took  into  my  head 
once  to  poke  up  there.  I'd  been  reading  Bret  Harte, 
that  sort  of  thing,  and  I  had  an  idea  I'd  do  it  over 
again  for  my  generation!  Maybe  you  don't  know 
that  I  used  to  have  a  scribbling  bee  in  my  bonnet. 
I  imagine  that's  really  what  spoiled  my  work.  I 
thought  if  the  Renaissance  people  practised  ten  or  a 
dozen  arts  equally  well,  I  might  make  a  stab  at  two. 
We  get  these  ideas  when  we  are  young,  sometimes. 
Moreover  I  didn't  know  that  it  took  more  than 

252 


STUDIO   SMOKE  253 

miners  and  mountains,  plus  a  pinch  of  sentiment,  to 
make  a  Bret  Harte.  And  if  I  did  him  over  again  you 
didn't  happen  to  hear  about  it,  did  you?  However, 
I  had  a  good  time,  all  the  same! 

That  country  took  me  tremendously.  Norway 
used  to  be  one  of  my  favourite  stamping  grounds.  I 
was  particularly  fond  of  going  up  there  after  Italy — 
only  I  used  to  wish  there  were  a  subway  under  Ger 
many  when  I  did  it!  The  contrast  was  so  extraor 
dinary — in  colour,  line,  atmosphere,  people,  every 
thing.  Then  simply  to  breathe  in  Italy,  for  me,  was 
such  a  voluptd  that  it  bordered  on  debauch !  So  after 
it  Norway  would  come  like  a  cool  repentance.  And 
there  was  a  simplicity  up  there,  a  silence,  a  loneli 
ness,  that  rather  upset  me  after  the  South.  It  called 
out  all  the  things  with  which  the  South  has  nothing 
to  do.  There's  no  use  trying  to  describe  it.  It's  the 
obverse,  don't  you  know,  of  kennst  Du  das  Land. 

Well,  Alaska  was  like  a  bigger  Norway — a  Nor 
way  with  longer  fiords,  with  taller  cliffs  rising  out  of 
greener  water,  with  bluer  glaciers,  with  whiter  and 
louder  waterfalls.  And  it  had,  proportionately,  a 
greater  loneliness  and  a  greater  impression  of  con 
trast  with  the  rest  of  the  world.  If  Norway  has  its 
Sagas,  if  nightfall  in  some  wild  fiord-end  seems  liter 
ally  a  dusk  of  the  gods,  the  silence  of  Alaska — the 
sense  of  its  having  been  there  for  centuries  by  itself 
with  no  one  to  hear  the  grind  of  the  ice  and  thunder 
of  the  waterfalls — takes  you  back  farther  yet.  And 
then  Norway,  after  all,  is  too  accessible  to  be  quite 


254  STUDIO  SMOKE 

what  it  should  be.  Tourists  may  be  as  bete  as  you 
please;  but  they  do  have  a  way,  after  all,  of  pouncing 
on  the  very  places  you  would  like  yourself  if  they 
didn't  exist.  The  philosophy  of  the  beaten  track  has 
yet  to  be  written.  Alaska,  however,  hasn't  reached 
that  stage  yet.  She  will  come  to  it  in  time.  She 
can't  help  it.  More  and  more  people  go  every  year. 
But  they  live  on  the  country  even  less  than  they  do 
in  Norway.  They  sit  on  decks  and  say  Oh  and  Ah  as 
things  sail  by.  They  really  don't  meddle  very  much. 

So  in  the  meantime  the  sense  of  contrast  is  one 
that  you  can  cultivate  at  your  leisure — if  you  have 
any.  Not  many  of  them  do  up  there — the  real  peo 
ple,  I  mean.  Life  is  too  lively,  even  if  they  had  the 
inclination.  And  they  are  the  very  ones  who  bring 
the  contrasts  most  sharply  to  you.  Heaven,  the 
types  you  see!  The  people  from  every  country  un 
der  the  sun,  the  people  of  every,  imaginable  social 
condition,  the  people  with  stories  to  them  a  mile 
long — and  not  all  of  them  printable !  Of  course  that's 
chiefly  in  the  mining  places,  and  in  the  coast  places 
leading  to  the  mining  places,  where  they  come  and 
go  like  ants  in  a  trail,  outwardly  as  much  alike  as 
flannel  shirts  and  nondescript  kits  can  make  them, 
inwardly  impersonating  every  race  and  passion  of 
the  world,  and  all  spinning  out  the  great  epic  of  Gold. 
It's  the  modern  version  of  the  Ring  and  the  Sagas. 

However,  I  wasn't  going  to  give  you  a  ten-minute 
talk  on  Alaska.  I  was  going  to  tell  you  about  my 
friend  the  hotel-keeper  in  Skagway.  Although  the 


STUDIO  SMOKE  255 

name  almost  sets  me  off  again — on  the  subject  of 
those  flimsy  wooden  settlements  sitting  unconcerned 
ly  in  the  shadow  of  those  solemn  mountains,  and  the 
bizarreness  of  them,  and  the  romance  of  them,  and 
the  tragedy  of  them!  He  went  by  the  name  of 
Chatty  Charley,  did  the  hotel-keeper — Chat  for 
short — on  the  principle  of  lucus  a  non  lucendo.  He 
was  never  known  to  utter  a  word  without  being 
asked  for  it,  and  he  didn't  always  favour  then.  Who 
he  was  or  where  he  came  from  nobody  knew.  Not 
that  anybody  cared.  They're  not  long  on  gossip  up 
there:  they  have  other  things  to  do.  Moreover, 
there  is  a  sort  of  tacit  understanding  in  the  matter 
of  antecedents — or  the  lack  of  them.  But  there  was 
generally  some  tag  by  which  you  could  place  a  man. 
It  didn't  take  you  long  to  make  up  your  mind  that 
he  would  be  a  bar-keep  in  San  Francisco,  or  a  drum 
mer  in  Chicago,  or  a  sophomore  in  Harvard.  Not 
that  those  exhausted  the  possibilities  by  any  means. 
Chatty,  however,  I  had  no  idea  about.  Or  per 
haps  it  would  be  truer  to  say  I  had  a  hundred.  He 
would  have  fitted  in  anywhere — except  Alaska.  He 
was  the  last  man  I  expected  to  find  up  there.  Not 
that  he  had  so  much  the  air  of  a  tenderfoot.  And  I 
don't  mean  any  of  your  high  melodrama  business — 
a  Lost  Heir  or  a  Blighted  Being  or  any  of  that.  It 
was  merely  that  he  was  rather  a  slight  man,  and 
wonderfully  meek  to  look  upon.  He  got  on  wonder 
fully  well,  though.  He  had  a  name  for  being  square, 
which  in  a  society  like  that  goes  rather  farther  than 


256  STUDIO  SMOKE 

it  does  in  ours,  I  fancy.  You  could  be  as  much  of 
a  tenderfoot  as  you  pleased;  but  if  you  took  what 
was  coming  to  you,  and  didn't  shoot  too  much  bull, 
and  played  a  square  game,  they'd  be  pretty  sure 
to  let  you  through. 

So  Chatty  did  a  roaring  business.  And  we  were 
great  cronies  from  the  start.  It  was  so  much  so  that 
the  others  thought  we  knew  rather  more  about  each 
other  than  we  let  on.  There  may  have  been  some 
thing  in  it — I  don't  know.  However,  the  reason  of  it 
was  rather  funny.  The  first  time  I  went  into  his 
place — and  it  was  a  place,  too:  if  I  once  began  telling 
you  about  it,  and  the  things  you  saw! —  the  first  time 
I  went  into  his  place  I  noticed  right  off,  among  the 
newspaper  cartoons  and  wild  odds  and  ends  which  he 
or  the  boys  had  tacked  up  around  the  walls,  some 
pictures  of  Venice — some  of  those  photogravures 
they  get  out,  you  know.  Well,  I  never  thought  much 
of  them  as  works  of  art,  although  I've  seen  them  in 
rather  unexpected  places.  But  this  was  the  most 
unexpected  of  all.  The  contrast  of  it  hit  me  like  a 
bullet — that  wonderful  old  town  with  its  perfection 
of  a  flower  and  its  hundreds  of  years — and  such 
years ! — behind  it,  and  this-  wild  new  raw  scrambling 
place  huddled  under  unknown  mountains  on  the  edge 
of  an  unknown  sea!  It  knocked  me  all  of  a  heap.  I 
went  staring  around  like  a  boob,  riot  noticing  much 
else,  until  I  happened  to  notice  a  peaceful  person 
behind  the  bar  who  was  looking  at  me. 

"Where  the  devil  did  these  things  come  from?"  I 


STUDIO  SMOKE  257 

demanded  of  him  rather  abruptly,  less  by  way  of 
conversation  than  of  uttering  the  question  that  was 
uppermost  in  my  mind. 

"Oh,  I  picked  them  up/'  replied  the  peaceful  per 
son,  who  turned  out  to  be  Chatty. 

"Been  there?"  I  pursued. 

"Yes,"  he  answered. 

It  was  a  mild  enough  remark,  heaven  knows.  And 
there  was  nothing  in  the  way  he  made  it,  except  a 
certain  matter-of-courseness.  Bu.t  that  was  just 
what  knocked  me  all  of  a  heap  again.  How  should 
anybody  in  Alaska,  most  of  all  how  should  anybody 
in  Skagway,  have  been  to  Venice  except  myself? 
And  then  I'm  clean  dotty  on  the  place,  anyway.  It 
gets  into  your  blood,  you  know,  and  it  got  into  mine 
before  anything  else  did.  I  go  back  there  whenever 
I  get  a  chance,  and  I  can  forgive  much  of  a  man  who 
betrays  a  weakness  for  it.  That  is  one  of  two  or 
three  touchstones  I  keep  in  my  pocket!  So  I  fell  on 
Chatty  and  began  talking  about  his  pictures,  and  the 
place  they  came  from,  and  he  seemed  to  know  all 
about  it.  He  even  knew  what  I  never  knew  any  one 
else  to  know — the  islands  in  the  lagoon.  The  Vene 
tians  themselves  don't  know  them.  They  are  tre 
mendous  landlubbers,  gondoliers  and  all,  and  appar 
ently  make  it  a  point  to  learn  as  little  as  possible  of 
the  shallow  green  sea  in  which  they  swim.  While  as 
for  the  tourists,  poor  dears,  they  go  to  the  Lido,  and 
Chioggia,  and  San  Lazzaro,  and  Murano,  and  Bur- 
ano,  and  Torcello,  and  possibly  San  Francesco  in 


258  STUDIO  SMOKE 

Deserto,  and  basta.  Chatty  also  knew  Italian,  I  in 
cidentally  discovered.  Indeed  there  came  times, 
once  or  twice,  when  we  found  it  rather  convenient. 
You  couldn't  be  sure  of  not  getting  caught,  though. 
There  are  too  many  funny  things  prowling  around 
up  there  under  miners'  hats  for  you  to  trust  to  no 
one's  understanding  your  lingo. 

Well,  for  such  a  short  acquaintance  we  got  fairly 
chummy,  Chatty  and  I.  It  was  so  to  a  degree  that 
made  the  boys  horse  him  for  actually  chatting.  Not 
that  he  really  did  chat  much.  He  evidently  liked  to 
listen  to  my  chatter  though,  and  once  in  a  while, 
when  nobody  in  particular  was  around,  he  would  say 
something  about  some  palace,  some  garden,  some 
island,  that  we  both  knew.  It  was  rather  amusing — 
in  Skagway.  But  the  real  nature  of  our  relation  was 
still  more  amusing.  I  never  knew  a  man  so  well  and 
so  little.  For  all  our  chumminess  we  never  had  one 
word  on  any  earthly  subject  except  Venice.  I  never 
even  got  a  hint  of  what  he  had  been  up  to  there,  or 
when,  or  how,  or  why,  or  anything.  I  had  no  more 
idea  than  the  cat  on  the  stairs  what  part  Venice 
played  in  the  scheme  of  his  existence — any  more  than 
I  had  an  idea,  above  the  immediate  and  obvious  one 
of  the  hotel,  what  part  Skagway  played.  He  had  an 
absolutely  impersonal  way  of  talking,  if  he  talked  at 
all,  that  left  nothing  to  take  hold  of.  And  I  never 
could  quite  make  out  whether  it  was  modesty  or  de 
sign — or  whether,  perhaps,  nothing  but  Venice  had 
ever  happened  to  him. 


STUDIO  SMOKE  259 

Of  course,  after  the  first  surprise — there  were  vari 
ous  degrees  of  it  as  the  character  of  our  queer  little 
bond  came  out — I  used  to  wonder  a  good  deal.  But 
I  finally  settled  down  to  a  sense  of  the  picturesque- 
ness  of  the  business.  Our  queer  little  bond,  after  all, 
was  quite  a  bond.  Marriages  have  been  made  on 
less!  And  to  have  such  a  bond  in  such  a  place — one 
was  about  as  strange  as  the  other.  So  I  gave  up  any 
idea  of  trying  to  draw  the  man  out.  I  had  made 
some  rather  idiotic  attempts  in  that  direction.  And 
I  used  to  amuse  myself  by  making  the  most  of  our 
two  points  of  view.  I  had  gone  up  there  for  the  sake 
of  the  wildness  and  the  coolness  and  the  stillness, 
only  to  encounter  this  individual  who  thought  of 
nothing  but  Italy!  I}e  typified  for  me  the  reaching 
out  of  the  North  for  the  South,  the  old  restlessness 
of  man  for  the  things  he  has  not,  which  Goethe  has 
put  into  "Wilhelm  Meister." 

I  don't  know  whether  I  would  ever  have  got  any 
farther  but  for  what  your  story  suggested — the  rath 
er  odd  coincidence.  And  I'm  not  sure  how  far  I  got 
then.  At  all  events,  I  was  sitting  one  night  at  the 
end  of  a  pier  there  was,  down  behind  Chatty's  hotel, 
looking  at  the  fiord — the  inlet,  they  call  it  there.  It 
was  late  on  a  Saturday  night  in  July,  about  half  past 
eleven  or  twelve.  Things  were  rather  nice  in  the 
warm  dusk  of  that  northern  summer,  with  the  moun 
tains  standing  up  purply-black  against  a  sky  that 
still  had  a  glow  in  it.  What  I  was  chiefly  noticing, 
however,  was  a  yacht  that  had  been  there  a  day  or 


260  STUDIO   SMOKE 

two  and  was  preparing  to  leave.  The  rattle  of  the 
anchor-chain  in  the  winch,  and  the  splash  of  the 
water  as  the  links  came  dripping  up,  were  loud 
against  the  Saturday  night  noises  of  the  town.  And 
on  the  deck,  where  there  was  a  blur  of  white,  I  could 
hear  voices,  and  the  fingering  of  a  guitar.  I  don't 
know — it  was  too  much  for  me.  There  is  something 
about  a  boat  at  night,  anyway,  with  the  lighted  port 
holes,  and  everything  .  .  .  And  then  I  had  been 
knocking  about  a  good  bit  up  there,  and  I  suppose  I 
was  ready  to  swing  around  to  the  other  extreme. 
Anyway,  I  was  pretty  near  something  like  homesick 
ness.  Which  was  not  at  all  what  I  had  been  when  I 
saw  some  of  the  yachters  in  the  town  that  morning. 

As  I  was  chewing  it  over  I  heard  steps  behind  me 
on  the  pier,  rather  to  my  disgust.  It  turned  out  to 
be  Chatty,  though. 

"Hullo,  Beau, "he  remarked,  kicking  his  heels  off 
the  end  of  the  pier  beside  me.  "Celebrating  Re- 
dentor?" 

Do  you  know  what  Redentor  is?  If  you  don't,  just 
let  me  tell  you  that  it  is  one  of  the  last  pieces  of  pa 
ganism  left  in  the  world.  It's  a  midsummer  festa  in 
Venice,  when  the  whole  town  and  most  of  the  adjoining 
mainland  spend  the  evening  in  boats,  eating  and 
drinking  and  singing  under  paper  lanterns.  Then 
they  all  go  out  to  the  Lido  and  finish  up  the  night 
dancing  on  the  sands.  And  when  the  sun  bobs  over 
the  edge  of  the  Adriatic  they  shout  like  heathen,  and 
a  lot  of  them  pull  off  their  clothes  and  tear  down  into 


STUDIO   SMOKE  261 

the  water.  It's  the  most  pagan  thing  you  ever  saw. 
All  this  is  really  the  eve  of  a  religious  festival  that 
comes  on  the  Sunday.  But  that  is  a  sad  and  sleepy 
anticlimax — at  best  a  mere  excuse  for  prolonging 
the  festivities,  which  are  of  the  crown  of  the  Venetian 
year. 

Well,  I  reckoned  up  and  found  that  Chatty  was 
right.  It  was,  barring  differences  of  time,  the  night 
of  Redentor.  I  wondered  why  I  hadn't  thought  of  it. 
And  the  sudden  sense  of  contrast  pressed  upon  me 
more  strongly  than  ever — the  contrast  between  that 
palace-bordered  canal  so  far  away  on  the  other  side 
of  the  world,  with  its  flower-lanterns  blowing  in  the 
darkness,  its  catches  of  song,  its  breath  of  all  that 
is  old  and  warm  and  human  and  I  don't  know 
what,  and  this  wild  place  of  the  North  in  its  unearthly 
dusk,  so  precisely  the  opposite!  I'm  not  much  on 
the  sentimental  line;  but  there  are  times  when  I  cave, 
and  that  was  one  of  them. 

We  both  sat  there,  thinking  the  same  things,  I 
suppose,  while  the  windlass  clinked  in  the  silence. 
Then  from  the  group  of  people  on  the  deck  of  the 
yacht,  what  do  you  suppose  we  heard?  You  couldn't 
imagine.  It  was  the  song,  the  very  identical  song 
about  love  and  the  sea,  which  the  Venetians  sing  on 
the  night  of  Redentor!  Distinctly  to  us  over  the 
water,  in  a  woman's  voice,  to  the  accompaniment  of 
a  guitar,  came  the  Venetian  words.  In  such  a  voice, 
too! 

I  looked  at  Chatty,  and  Chatty  looked  at  me.    It 


262  STUDIO  SMOKE 

was  incredible.  It  was  incredible  enough  that  he  and 
I  should  be  there;  but  a  third  person,  and  just  on 
that  night!  At  the  moment,  however,  I  didn't  have 
time  to  take  in  how  incredible  it  was,  because  as  we 
sat  staring  at  each  other  the  anchor  came  up  with  a 
big  splash.  Then  the  yacht  began  to  circle  in  a  half 
moon  off  the  head  of  the  pier,  and  glided  away  like 
a  great  white  swan.  We  could  hear  the  woman  sing 
ing  as  she  went.  That  was  to  me  even  more  than  the 
coincidence — the  rush  of  things  I  had  been  so  long 
without,  those  old  common  conventional  things  that 
we  so  hate  when  we  have  them  every  day!  I  sup 
pose  I  looked  queer.  Chatty  did — for  Chatty. 

"Do  you  know  her?"  he  asked. 

"  Know  her ! "  I  burst  out.  "  How  the  devil  should 
I  know  her?  I  only  wish  I  did.  I'd  be  steaming  down 
to  Seattle  instead  of  kicking  my  heels  over  Chilkoot 
Inlet." 

He  looked  away  toward  the  yacht. 

"  Oh ! "  he  said.  "  You  knew  so  many  of  the  things, 
I  thought — perhaps " 

I  laughed. 

"Well,  I  don't  happen  to  this  time.    Do  you?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Chatty. 

That's  exactly  what  he  said,  if  you  please:  "yes!" 
I  couldn't  have  been  more  amazed  if  the  pier  had 
suddenly  begun  flying  through  the  air. 

"Know  her,  man!"  I  cried.  And  then  I  remem 
bered.  "Oh,  I  suppose  you  saw  them  upstreet  this 
morning." 


STUDIO  SMOKE  263 

"  Did  you?  "  he  asked.    He  seemed  interested. 

"  How  could  I  help  it?  "  I  rejoined.  "  You  can  tell 
that  kind  of  people  a  mile  off,  up  here." 

"Oh!"  he  said.  "I  didn't  happen  to.  I'm  in  the 
hotel  a  good  deal,  you  know." 

He  looked  away  again.  But  I  began  to  get  in 
terested. 

"How  on  earth  do  you  know  her,  then?"  I  de 
manded  with  more  curiosity  than  discretion. 

"Well,"  he  answered  slowly,  "I  used  to  live  in  the 
same  house  with  her — over  there." 

He  waved  his  hand  in  the  direction  of  the  disap 
pearing  boat.  At  that  my  discretion  fared  worse 
than  before.  It  was  really,  though,  with  an  idea  of 
carrying  the  thing  off  lightly  that  I  asked: 

"How  do  you  know  it's  the  same  one?" 

He  barely  smiled. 

"Well,  a  voice,  you  know — sometimes  it  sort  of 
sticks  in  your  head.  I  suppose  you  think  it's  queer. 
But  I  could  tell  you  her  name — and  everything." 

He  didn't,  let  me  state  in  passing.  But  Chatty 
did  tell  me  something.  I  don't  think  it  was  because 
I  was  I — if  you  gather  anything  from  that  elegant 
phrase!  Of  course,  our  bond  made  me  less  objection 
able  than  I  might  have  been.  But  the  truth  of  it 
was  that  the  spring  had  been  touched  and  the  panel 
had  to  yield.  Not  that  I  got  more  than  a  peep  into 
the  secret  recess,  though.  I  only  saw  what  lay  in 
front. 

"H'm!"  mused  Chatty  aloud,  partly  to  himself 


264  STUDIO  SMOKE 

and  partly  to  me.  "What  a  funny  girl  she  was!  She 
was  one  of  those  girls  who  begin  to  learn  things  too 
soon  and  get  through  learning  them  too  late.  She 
was  rather  young,  then,  too.  She  was  big  and  black 
and  pale  and  awkward,  and  not  very  pretty."  Then, 
"Was  there  anybody  like  that  among  the  people  you 
saw?"  he  asked  suddenly. 

I  considered. 

"No." 

"  There  wouldn't  be,"  he  volunteered  somewhat  in- 
consequently.  After  which  he  went  on:  "People 
liked  her  all  the  same.  There  were  dozens  of  them 
ready  to  jump  into  the  Canal  for  her,  even  then.  And 
I  guess  some  of  'em  did.  I  didn't,  though.  I  didn't 
like  her.  I  liked  to  hear  her  sing,  but  that  was  all. 
I  had  an  idea  she  posed.  She  struck  me  as  doing  the 
high  tragedy  act,  and  I  didn't  much  care  for  it.  She 
had  funny  ways,  too.  She  used  to  come  into  my 
room  at  all  hours  of  day  and  night,  and  I  thought  she 
was  up  to  that  sham  Bohemian  game  they  put  on 
sometimes  when  they  get  a  chance.  Not  that  I'm 
so  terribly  straitlaced  myself;  but  I  like  people  to  be 
what  they  are,  and  I  didn't  think  she  was.  Oh,  I  had 
ideas  then!" 

He  stopped,  did  Chatty,  as  we  watched  the  last  of 
the  yacht.  It  faded  like  a  ghost  into  the  purple  of 
the  cliffs. 

"Yes,  she  was  a  funny  girl,"  he  finally  said.  Then 
he  put  his  hand  into  his  pocket  and  drew  out  the 
classic  pocketbook.  From  it,  however,  he  took 


STUDIO  SMOKE  265 

neither  the  classic  photograph  nor  the  classic  lock  of 
hair — not  even  the  classic  rose.  But  I  will  admit 
that  he  did  produce  a  desiccated  vegetable  of  some 
sort.  This  he  held  up  to  himself  and  to  me.  "When 
I  went  away,"  he  said,  "she  came  into  my  room  to 
watch  me  pack.  She  had  been  in  the  garden,  and  she 
had  a  big  branch  of  lemon  verbena.  She  broke  off  a 
sprig  every  now  and  then  and  threw  it  into  the  trunk. 
I  found  them  all  over  everything,  afterwards.  'When 
you  get  to  America/  she  said,  'it  will  remind  you  of 
the  girl  you  didn't  like  and  who  didn't  like  you."1 

He  stopped  and  looked  down  the  inlet.  Then  he 
looked  at  his  sprig  again.  I  wondered  what  to  say. 

"Oh!"  I  uttered  tamely.  "So  you  keep  it  to  re 
mind  you  of  the  girl  you  didn't  like!" 

"Yes,"  he  said— "and  who  didn't  like  me." 


BEHIND  THE   DOOR 


WE  never  would  have  seen  the  place  if  the  idea 
had  not  beguiled  us,  at  Trent,  of  driving 
through  the  Dolomites  to  Bassano.  And  I 
doubt  whether  we  would  have  been  so  extravagant 
about  it  if  we  had  not  just  come  from  Germany.  Is 
any  quiver  quite  like  that  with  which  the  returning 
victim  of  Italy  greets  his  first  cypress,  his  first  olive 
tree,  his  first  campanile?  We  formed  imperishable 
ties  with  our  irredentista  driver,  chiefly  because  he 
told  us  that  the  inhabitants  of  his  dark  little  moun 
tain  city  had  turned  the  back  of  their  statue  of  Dante 
to  the  North.  Moreover  it  was  May;  and  I  should 
perhaps  confess  that  we  were  too  recently  married 
to  be  altogether  responsible.  So  when  we  discovered 
the  castle  that  afternoon  as  we  jingled  down  the  wid 
ening  gorge  of  the  Val  Sugana,  we  agreed  that  a 
princess  must  be  shut  up  in  the  tower.  Whereupon, 
as  if  in  confirmation  of  our  insight,  an  invisible 
dragon  suddenly  made  himself  heard  behind  the 
walls. 

Otherwise  there  was  no  sign  of  habitation  about 
the  place.  The  rusty  wrought-iron  gate  through 
which  we  stopped  to  look,  the  weed-checkered  flag- 

266 


BEHIND  THE  DOOR  267 

ging  within,  the  ruinous  little  chapel  half  averted 
from  us  at  the  right,  the  cracked  and  discoloured 
shafts  outlining  the  court,  the  gaunt  old  pile  of  dark 
stone  with  its  machicolated  tower,  formed  a  picture 
of  abandonment  which  the  dog's  barking  made  a 
trifle  uncanny.  But  severe  and  even  formidable  as 
the  castle  was,  in  spite  of  its  neglect,  it  had  the 
nobility  of  perfect  proportion.  It  was  not  so  much 
a  castle,  indeed,  as  a  castellated  villa.  The  great 
arched  windows  of  the  facade  were  scarcely  of  a 
period  when  Ezzelino  da  Romano  scoured  these  val 
leys  o'  nights.  Neither  were  the  quarterfoils  piercing 
the  parapet  of  the  roof.  I  remember  how  exquisite 
the  spring  sky  looked  through  them,  and  between 
the  square  merlons  of  the  tower.  That  element  of 
contrast,  taken  with  all  the  other  circumstances, 
gave  the  structure  a  curious  intensity  of  expression. 
There  was  something  tragic  in  the  way  it  lifted  itself 
against  the  light. 

It  was  part  of  the  effect,  and  of  the  incredible 
richness  of  Italy,  that  our  friend  the  driver  could 
tell  us  nothing  about  the  place.  It  was  merely  a 
castello  qualunque!  Yet  how  little  was  it  a  castello 
qualunque  we  began  to  learn  not  long  after  we  had 
started  on,  skirting  the  wall  that  hid  the  princess's 
dragon  until  her  castle  suddenly  revealed  itself  to  us, 
at  a  turn  of  the  road,  under  a  second  and  more 
romantic  aspect.  And  this  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
nothing  more  romantic  than  a  few  strands  of  barbed 
wire  closed  what  must  once  have  been  the  state  en- 


268  BEHIND   THE   DOOR 

trance.  Of  course  we  stopped  again — to  look  at  the 
semicircular  recess  in  the  wall,  with  its  lichened  stone 
seats  and  couchant  lions.  Between  them  opened  an 
avenue,  I  don't  know  how  many  hundred  yards  long, 
of  cypresses  I  don't  know  how  many  hundred  years 
old,  that  marched  and  dipped  and  rose  again  with 
such  an  air  to  the  steps  of  a  balustrated  terrace  in 
front  of  the  castle!  This  fairy  arcade,  jewel-green 
with  moss  as  if  no  one  had  trodden  it  for  a  century 
and  cross-lighted  by  a  westering  sun,  seemed  to  lead 
to  some  palace  of  enchantment  rather  than  to  the 
melancholy  place  we  just  had  passed.  So  different 
a  face  did  the  villa  turn  to  us  now,  with  a  loggia 
lightening  its  upper  story  and  the  Alps  spreading  a 
veil  of  magic  behind  it,  that  even  the  tower  lost  its 
grimness  in  the  golden  air.  We  therefore  changed 
our  minds  about  the  princess.  We  decided  that  she 
was  lying  asleep  there  as  a  princess  should,  waiting 
for  her  prince. 

II 

It  was  only  when  we  perceived  farther  down  the 
wall  to  the  left  an  archway  opening  into  a  white  farm 
court,  and  an  old  peasant  woman  looking  out  of  it, 
that  we  came  back  to  the  ordinary  affairs  of  life. 
Which,  for  ourselves,  consisted  in  getting  to  Bassano. 
And  we  found  it,  after  following  out  of  our  rocky 
gorge  a  river  that  no  one  would  have  suspected  of 
being  the  lazy  Venetian  Brenta,  one  of  the  most 
seductive  little  towns  in  the  universe.  Its  ivied 


BEHIND   THE  DOOR  269 

walls,  its  capricious  streets,  its  overshadowing  eaves, 
its  pictured  facades,  its  covered  bridge,  its  noisy 
green  river,  so  ravished  two  wanderers  fresh  from 
the  pseudo-classicism  of  Munich  that  they  instantly 
resolved  to  spend  there  the  remainder  of  their  lives. 

Certain  obstacles,  however,  opposed  this  project. 
The  hotels,  otherwise  perfect  establishments  of  their 
kind,  afforded  no  outlook  save  upon  the  blackest 
alleys.  And  these  on  market  mornings  were  nothing 
less  than  bedlam.  Moreover  a  heavenly  apartment 
we  had  descried  from  afar,  at  the  top  of  a  house 
overhanging  the  Brenta,  with  a  corner  loggia  that 
reminded  us  of  the  one  we  had  seen  in  the  Val  Sugana 
—an  apartment  after  which  no  other  apartment  in 
the  world  could  make  us  happy— was  occupied  by 
an  unnatural  parent  of  many  children  who  refused 
to  entertain  our  polite  proposal  that  she  vacate  in 
our  favour,  even  when  we  proved  to  her  that  we 
would  save  her  offspring's  lives  in  taking  the  lease 
off  her  hands. 

So  when  our  Da9mon  led  us,  sad  and  destitute  of 
matches,  not  only  to  the  Gaffe  al  Mondo  but  to  the 
table  next  Principe  Montughi,  we  fell  as  ripe  plums 
into  his  mouth.  But  my  phrase  is  far  from  happy  if 
it  lead  the  reader  to  imagine  that  he  is  about  to  be 
treated  to  a  portrait  of  the  dark  and  designing  Italian 
of  romance.  In  the  first  place,  Principe  Montughi 
might  very  well  have  been  described  as  fair.  In  all 
his  subsequent  dealings  with  us  he  certainly  was. 
In  the  second  place,  the  suggestion  that  we  should 


270  BEHIND   THE  DOOR 

occupy  a  part  of  his  villa  had  its  origin,  I  remember, 
in  the  audacity  of  my  wife.  For  the  rest,  I  am  ready 
to  allow  that  he  was  one  of  the  most  imposing  per 
sons  I  ever  met.  The  mere  sight  of  his  silk  hat  was 
a  lesson  in  worldly  wisdom,  while  the  air  with  which 
he  offered  me — no:  with  which  he  proffered  me — the 
match  of  destiny  made  me  realise  that  I  must  be 
born  again,  and  a  Latin,  to  carry  life  off  with  such  a 
hand.  What  was  more  striking  about  him,  though, 
at  least  to  my  Anglo-Saxon  eye,  was  the  way  he 
filled  his  immaculate  morning-coat,  as  if  no  clothes 
could  ever  be  big  enough  for  his  arms  and  shoulders. 
And  his  head,  which  was  set  close  to  them,  looked 
better  suited  to  batter  in  gates  than  to  carry  silk 
hats.  But  its  size  and  squareness  and  general  com 
petence  contrasted  oddly,  again,  with  the  eyes.  These 
were  of  so  pale  a  blue  that  from  a  distance  they  had 
the  emptiness  of  a  statue's  gaze.  I  wondered  whether 
it  were  the  contiguity  of  them,  or  the  extreme  nar 
rowness  of  the  forehead  above  them,  or  the  sur 
prised  flare  of  their  nearly  intermingled  eyebrows, 
that  gave  them  the  look  of  trouble  so  magnificently 
contradicted  by  everything  else  about  the  Prince. 

Therefore  when  I  say  that  we  fell  as  ripe  plums 
into  his  mouth,  I  merely  choose  a  less  graceful, 
though  perhaps  less  pompous,  way  of  saying  that 
fate  had  prepared  us  for  him  and  him  for  us.  And  I 
shall  waste  no  time  in  pretending  that  his  villa  was 
not  the  one  we  had  seen  up  the  river.  That  would 
make  too  light  of  an  element  of  the  fatal  in  our 


BEHIND   THE  DOOR  271 

chance  relation  of  which  I,  for  one,  became  increas 
ingly  conscious.  Yet  after  the  way  we  had  gone  on 
about  the  place,  he  could  scarcely  do  less  than  invite 
us  to  drive  out  the  next  day  and  see  it. 

If  we  secretly  trembled  lest  our  first  impression 
were  destined  to  suffer  the  common  lot  of  first  im 
pressions,  we  proved  that  we  had  been  right  after 
all.  We  began  to  know  it  as  soon  as  we  clattered 
under  the  archway  of  the  podere,  passed  out  of  the 
picturesque  white  court  into  an  olive  yard,  skirted 
an  old  garden  that  had  gone  all  to  birds  and  bushes, 
and  looked  down  from  the  terrace  into  the  delicious 
morning  freshness  of  the  cypress  avenue.  But  what 
really  clinched  us  was  the  loggia.  This  was  nothing 
less  than  a  great  marble  room,  opening  out  of  the 
upper  hall  of  the  villa.  There  were  windows  on 
either  hand  of  the  door,  and  in  each  side  wall  a  niche 
where  statues  once  had  been.  As  for  the  front,  it 
was  a  triptych  framed  between  the  low  marble  para 
pet  and  the  pillars  supporting  the  roof,  wherein  were 
set,  with  all  the  art  of  an  Italian  May  morning,  the 
tangled  green  of  the  garden,  and  the  valley  shut  in 
between  its  rocky  walls,  and  the  Brenta  shining  past 
vineyards  and  stone  pines  and  scattered  farms  into 
a  sea  of  misty  sunlight  that  was  the  Lombard 
Plain. 

Such  a  loggia — such  a  place  to  work  in,  to  play 
in,  to  eat  in,  to  sleep  in,  to  live  in — never  was  on  sea 
or  land.  Once  we  set  foot  in  it  we  forgot  Bassano 
and  the  unnatural  parent  and  every  other  human 


272  BEHIND   THE   DOOR 

tie;  and  the  Principe  was  lost.  I  don't  believe  he 
could  have  got  rid  of  us  if  he  had  wanted  to.  Though, 
for  that  matter,  I  have  always  wondered  why  he 
didn't.  Which  is  not  saying  that  we  did  not  dis 
cover  reasons  enough  for  his  keeping  us.  But  as  it 
was  he  smiled  indulgently  at  our  enthusiasm  over  his 
barrack,  as  he  called  it,  apologised  for  its  dilapidated 
condition,  and  said  that  if  we  would  give  him  time 
he  would  make  a  few  necessary  improvements.  Such, 
for  instance,  as  scraping  the  moss  from  the  avenue  of 
cypresses.  This  proposal  we  rejected  in  horror,  cry 
ing  out  that  we  should  never  dream  of  using  that 
entrance  and  that  we  would  infinitely  prefer  him  to 
scrape  the  tiles  off  the  floors.  We  did  agree,  how 
ever,  that  he  should  supply  service  and  an  occasional 
carriage,  in  addition  to  our  meals.  With  which  un 
derstanding  we  took  a  reluctant  leave,  warning  the 
Principe  to  expect  us  not  later  than  the  evening  of 
the  second  day. 

And  thus  it  was  that  from  a  carriage  hired  in  the 
whim  of  a  honeymoon  we  alighted  in  an  episode  the 
most  memorable  of  our  lives. 

in 

When  we  returned  to  take  possession,  the  first 
person  we  saw  was  Principe  Montughi.  No  less 
suave  and  impeccable  as  landlord  than  as  host,  he 
showed  us  to  our  rooms,  introduced  Graziosa,  the 
little  peasant  girl  who  was  to  be  our  maid,  and  said 
dinner  would  be  served  at  seven  o'clock.  He  was 


BEHIND   THE   DOOR  273 

sorry  he  had  neglected  to  ask  what  we  wished,  and 
at  what  time  we  wished  it;  but  if  we  would  be  good 
enough  to  put  up  with  our  first  repast,  he  hoped  we 
could  in  the  future  suit  ourselves  so  far  as  the  re 
sources  of  his  inadequate  establishment  permitted. 
He  then  withdrew,  and  we  proceeded  to  settle  our 
selves  in  our  new  domain. 

Not  that  there  was  much  settling  to  be  done.  Our 
belongings  were  no  more  numerous  than  could  be 
carried  in  trunks,  while  the  rooms  in  which  we  dis 
posed  them  were  preposterously  bare.  We  suspected 
that  the  furniture  had  gone  the  way  of  the  front 
gates,  which  had  been  so  admired  by  a  passing  com 
patriot  of  ours  that  the  Prince  said  he  had  parted 
with  them  for  ten  times  their  value  and  had  not  yet 
got  around  to  replacing  them.  Neither  had  he  yet 
found  time  to  make  other  repairs  that  some  people 
might  have  considered  more  pressing.  But  that  was 
a  part  of  our  picnic,  as  we  regarded  it.  We  could 
have  furniture  and  tight  windows  at  home;  but  we 
couldn't  have  such  big  cool  echoing  rooms,  or  such 
a  loggia,  or  such  a  garden,  or  such  a  podere,  or  such 
an  olive  yard  running  down  to  such  a  river. 

Accordingly  we  were  the  more  surprised  by  the 
dinner  which  Graziosa  presently  came  to  tell  us  was 
served  on  the  terrace.  It  was  no  picnic  art  with 
which  our  uninstructed  underlings  had  set  the  table 
and  arranged  the  flowers  and  the  brass  fiorentine  we 
might  need  later  on,  with  which  they  had  chosen 
just  the  right  point  for  looking  down  the  avenue  or 


274  BEHIND   THE   DOOR 

catching  the  last  light  of  sunset  on  the  tower.  So 
keenly  did  we  realise  it  that  we  were  ready  to  give 
them  credit  for  the  stately  setting  of  the  terrace,  for 
the  mellowness  of  cracked  marble  and  foot-worn 
brick  and  weathered  stone,  for  the  rich  evening  still 
ness  of  the  garden  and  the  fluting  of  the  birds  among 
the  trees.  We  felt  rather  like  persons  in  a  play,  sit 
ting  down  to  a  stage  dinner.  When  the  soup  came 
on  we  wondered  whether  it  would  be  real. 

It  was — like  the  delicious  trout  that  followed  it, 
like  the  dish  of  macaroni  and  frizzled  eggplant  that 
formed  the  irresistible  piece  of  resistance,  like  the 
crisp  salad  which  prepared  the  way  for  a  Gorgonzola 
I  would  now  commit  crimes  for,  like  the  far  from 
histrionic  Verona  which  bore  us  through  to  the  coffee. 
It  was  all  so  real,  and  so  acute  a  sense  of  the  joy  of 
life  filled  us  when  at  last  Graziosa  lighted  the  wicks 
of  the  fiorentine  and  left  us  to  a  platter  of  walnuts 
and  a  carafe  of  Marsala,  that  we  hadn't  the  heart  to 
call  her  back  for  nut-crackers.  Besides,  my  wife 
wanted  the  secret  of  that  masterpiece  of  resistance. 
So  she  decided  to  go  and  ask  the  old  woman  herself. 
And  I  went  along  too. 

There  was  more  than  one  piece  of  foolishness  be 
tween  us,  I  remember,  as  we  made  for  the  corner  of 
the  villa — the  one  Graziosa  had  turned  as  she  came 
and  went  with  our  plates.  I  remember  it,  and  a 
nightingale  in  the  garden,  and  our  serious  agreement 
that  "it"  was  all  "wonderful,"  as  one  unaccountably 
remembers  longest  a  few  of  the  least  serious  moments 


BEHIND  THE   DOOR  275 

of  life.  But  I  remember  too  the  curious  change  in 
atmosphere,  almost  like  a  breath  of  chilled  air,  which 
we  detected  even  in  our  foolishness  and  in  that  dim 
light,  when  the  end  of  the  castle  lifted  its  stark  mass 
above  us,  with  the  tower  darkly  overtopping  the 
farther  angle.  We  walked  toward  it.  And  presently 
we  made  out,  beyond  a  black  blotch  that  suggested 
a  door,  two  little  lighted  windows.  They  twinkled 
like  a  pair  of  eyes,  rather  too  far  above  the  ground 
for  us  to  look  into.  I  fear  we  might  have  done  so, 
then;  for  in  the  back  of  both  our  heads  was  a  desire 
to  become  better  acquainted  with  our  romantic  do 
main.  A  sudden  growl  in  the  darkness,  however, 
decided  us  for  the  door. 

It  proved  not  to  be  locked.  The  enormous  raftered 
room  into  which  we  stepped,  hand  still  in  hand, 
must  have  been  the  original  kitchen  of  the  castle.  I 
caught  a  hasty  impression  of  a  vast  fireplace,  on  a 
central  platform  under  a  chimney  hood,  of  tins  and 
coppers  and  brasses  glimmering  dully,  of  Graziosa 
standing  statue-like  with  a  candle.  What  almost, 
immediately  held  my  eye  was  a  superb  three-legged 
pot  of  hammered  copper  full  of  lettuce  heads,  stand 
ing  in  the  fireplace.  Going  over  to  look  at  it  more 
closely,  I  became  aware  that  someone  else  was  in 
the  room.  My  surprise  was  the  greater  because  this 
person  was  not  at  all  the  old  woman  of  the  farm,  or 
her  husband  either.  It  was  a  man  who  sat  in  the 
shadow  at  one  side  in  a  chef's  white  cap.  He  rose 
silently  from  the  deal  table  at  which  he  had  been 


276  BEHIND  THE  DOOR 

eating  the  remains  of  our  dinner.  And  then,  to  my 
stupefaction,  I  recognised  the .  Prince  himself. 

He  took  off  his  white  cap  and  bowed,  magnificent 
as  ever.  What  a  feat  that  was  I  cannot  hope  to  make 
clear  in  a  land  where  we  are  as  used  to  great  changes 
of  fortune  as  we  are  to  the  somewhat  inadequate 
service,  at  summer  hotels,  of  young  gentlemen  from 
the  universities.  The  sense  of  it  flashed  for  me,  as  I 
took  in  the  Prince's  masquerade,  into  a  surprised 
consciousness  of  a  parallel  between  the  man  and  his 
house — in  which  a  sense  of  strange  and  lamentable 
things  mingled  inarticulately  with  the  recognition  of 
a  personal  force  even  deeper  than  I  had  suspected. 

I  wish  that  had  been  the  only  reason  for  the  open- 
mouthed  spectacle  we  made  of  ourselves.  But  the 
transition  from  the  silk  hat  to  the  white  cap — under 
which  the  flare  of  the  Prince's  eyebrows  looked 
startlingly  made  up — was  so  abrupt,  it  so  carried  out 
our  earlier  stage  illusion,  that  it  is  no  satisfaction  to 
recall  how  far  we  were  from  smiles.  The  stare  we 
gave,  the  glances  we  involuntarily  exchanged,  were 
just  as  gross. 

Of  course  after  that  first  ignoble  moment,  which 
I  hope  was  not  so  long  as  the  telling  of  it,  we 
were  both  eager  to  extend  the  right  hand  of  fellow 
ship.  But  Montughi  cut  the  ground  from  under 
our  feet. 

"Graziosa,"  he  commanded,  "the  signori  have  lost 
their  way.  Show  them  up  to  their  rooms." 

I  don't  suppose  it  was  five  minutes  from  the  time 


BEHIND  THE  DOOR  277 

we  left  the  table  on  the  terrace  before  we  found  our 
selves  back  in  our  loggia,  watching  the  receding 
glimmer  of  Graziosa's  candle  and  listening  to  the 
echo  of  her  footsteps  die  away  in  the  dark  house. 

IV 

He  showed  us  our  place,  did  the  Principe,  and  we 
sat  in  it. 

I  won't  say  that  we  didn't  wriggle  in  it  a  little,  at 
first.  We  naturally  wanted  to  show  him  that  if  we 
had  broken  into  his  kitchen  we  were  no  pair  of  mere 
inquisitive  snoopers,  and  that  the  fact  of  our  having 
caught  him  in  cap  and  apron  could  not  make  the 
slightest  difference  in  our  relations — unless  to  im 
prove  them.  But  that  was  precisely  what  the  Prin 
cipe  would  not  let  us  do.  Such  overtures  as  we  made 
in  that  direction  encountered  a  stony  impassivity 
which  taught  us  our  own  unwilling  role.  This  was 
to  make  two  personages  of  our  landlord  and  of  our 
cook.  The  former  was  the  impeccable  gentleman  of 
the  world  we  had  accidentally  met  at  Bassano,  who 
honoured  us  with  an  occasional  call  and  who  once  a 
week  drove  splendidly  away  to  town  in  the  old 
caleche  which  remained  the  rest  of  the  time  at  our 
disposal.  The  latter  was  an  invisible  chef  of  no  less 
distinguished  qualities.  If  when  we  took  in  the  situ 
ation  and  realised  that  we  would  never  be  able  to 
scold  our  cook  we  both  felt  a  certain  dismay,  it  was 
speedily  dispelled  by  the  discovery  that  our  cook 
never  required  a  scolding.  But  never  did  he  in  one 


278  BEHIND   THE  DOOR 

character  refer  to  the  other.  And  never,  after  one  or 
two  futile  attempts,  did  we. 

The  thing  was  really  preposterous.  There  we 
were,  the  three  of  us,  cut  off  from  the  world  as  if  we 
had  been  castaways  on  a  desert  island,  and  the  man 
went  on  to  the  end  pretending  now  not  to  be  Prince 
and  now  not  to  be  cook.  A  hundred  times  I  was 
on  the  edge  of  bursting  out :  "  Come,  my  dear  fellow, 
don't  make  things  so  hard  for  yourself  and  for  us." 
Only — I  never  did!  On  the  contrary,  we  sometimes 
went  so  far  as  to  ask  ourselves  whether  the  two  per 
sonages  might  not  be  separate  after  all. 

We  smiled  when  we  recalled  our  simple  anticipa 
tions  in  becoming  co-tenants  of  Castello  Montughi. 
One  of  them  had  been  that  we  should  at  last  see 
something  of  what  the  sojourner  in  Italy  so  rarely 
does,  an  Italian  interior.  Whereas  we  discovered 
that,  like  everybody  else,  we  were  to  see  nothing  at 
all.  Perhaps  it  was  our  pique  at  finding  ourselves  in 
so  curious  and  unexpected  a  subjection  that  searched 
for  any  possible  flaw  in  the  Prince's  acting,  that  di 
vined  a  secret  source  of  indifference  under  his  pride. 
More  was  there  than  we  knew,  but  we  didn't  much 
matter  one  way  or  the  other.  I  presume  we  felt  it 
because  we  thought — and  I  still  think — one  reason 
for  our  singular  relation  was  that  we  brought  him  a 
breath,  such  as  it  was,  from  a  wider  world  than  Val 
Sugana.  At  all  events  it  was  impossible  for  us  to  be 
indifferent  about  him.  Who  on  earth  was  he?  We 
could  not  help  asking  each  other  that  question,  or 


BEHIND   THE   DOOR  279 

feeling  sure  that  it  had  an  answer.  And  what  had 
brought  him  to  the  straits  in  which  we  found  him? 
And  why,  most  of  all,  did  he  inhabit  this  tumble 
down  castle  in  the  Dolomites  when  such  a  personality 
as  his  #ould  not  fail  elsewhere  to  make  its  mark? 

We  kept  our  questions  to  ourselves,  however.  We 
also  kept,  after  that  first  misadventure,  to  our  part 
of  the  house.  But  I  would  create  an  entirely  false 
impression  if  I  seemed  to  insinuate  that  we  breathed 
an  air  of  Maeterlinck  or  of  Poe.  What  would  you? 
The  year  was  yet  young,  we  ourselves  were  by  no 
means  old,  we  happened  to  have  stumbled  at  a  mo 
ment  not  the  least  romantic  in  life  into  a  setting  of 
the  most  romantic.  Nor  did  Montughi's  eccentricity 
make  it  less  so.  The  half -ruined  castle,  the  lonely 
valley,  the  rushing  river,  reacted  upon  our  new-world 
sensitiveness  to  such  stimuli  in  a  way  we  could 
scarcely  have  resisted.  Such  twilights  as  darkened 
our  deserted  garden  and  our  great  echoing  rooms 
demanded  a  ghost.  And  we  devoutly  continued  to 
believe  in  the  princess  who  should  inhabit  the  tower. 

We  took  her,  like  her  tower  and  her  loggia  and  her 
enchanted  avenue  of  cypresses,  for  granted — as  a  piece 
of  the  Argument  from  Design,  whereby  all  things 
existed  for  the  edification  of  two  wandering  Amer 
icans  who  had  not  long  been  married.  We  also  took 
her,  it  must  be  said  in  further  disclaimer  of  that  in 
sinuation  to  which  I  have  just  alluded,  with  giggles. 
Was  she  not  red-haired,  whose  head  we  were  one 
day  to  behold  in  a  casement  or  an  embrasure  of  the 


280  BEHIND   THE  DOOR 

tower?  On  that  we  usually  agreed.  My  wife,  how 
ever,  held  that  the  mysterious  lady  was  a  flame  of 
Montughi's  for  whom  he  had  ruined  himself  and 
whom  he  had  borne  away  to  this  solitary  retreat  to 
be  free  of  the  world  and  its  conventions,  to  say  noth 
ing  of  importunate  husbands.  Whereas  according 
to  my  own  less  decorative  theory  our  princess  was 
an  elderly  female  relative,  possibly  a  wife  but  prob 
ably  a  maiden  aunt,  who  suffered  from  a  Jane  Eyre- 
ish  disability  of  the  mental  organs,  requiring  a  regime 
of  country  air  and  close  surveillance. 

In  any  case,  she  remained  even  more  obstinately 
invisible  than  our  princely  cook.  But  while  it  of 
course  kept  alive  our  more  or  less  humorous  specu 
lations  to  see,  after  dark,  slits  of  light  in  the  irregu 
larly  spaced  loopholes  of  the  tower,  or  sometimes  to 
hear  notes  from  a  faraway  violin  which  was  doubtless 
a  gramophone,  we  elaborately  avoided  the  other  side 
of  the  castle.  Although  we  could  laugh  about  Mon- 
tughi,  we  did  not  wish  to  give  him  another  occasion 
for  putting  us  in  the  wrong.  For  the  same  reason 
we  pretended  at  first  to  be  cool  toward  Graziosa  and 
the  good  old  people  at  the  podere.  And  I  presume  it 
was  not  wholly  our  imagination  that  sensed  a  reserve 
under  their  Latin  manners.  That  pretense  did  not 
last  long,  however.  There  is  a  fatal  affinity  between 
exiles  in  Italy  and  those  who  serve  them.  Moreover 
our  unwillingness  to  use  the  Prince's  gate  too  often, 
or  to  lacerate  ourselves  by  crawling  through  the 
barbed  wire  of  our  own,  made  it  necessary  for  us  to 


BEHIND   THE   DOOR  281 

go  in  and  out  of  the  farmyard.  So  we  ended  by  be 
coming  fast  friends  with  the  peasants  who  lived  there. 
Also  with  their  dragon,  the  watchdog  of  the  place. 
This  was  a  huge  white  shaggy  creature  whom  my 
wife  christened  Abracadabra  and  whom  we  promptly 
set  about  corrupting.  He  was  always  let  loose  at 
night. 

For  the  rest,  we  spent  more  and  more  time  prowl 
ing  about  the  country.  One  reason  was  the  Principe. 
We  had  a  rather  absurd  idea  that  he  might  like  his 
place  to  himself,  once  in  a  while.  Another  was  that 
we  found  the  garden  more  charming  to  look  at  than 
to  idle  in,  especially  after  dewfall.  It  was  not  for 
nothing  that  the  moss  of  the  avenue  kept  so  fairy 
green.  Dank  that  garden  was,  even  beyond  the  sha 
dow  of  its  tall  cypresses.  The  filmed  statues  showed 
it,  and  the  weedy  paths.  But  there  were  pleasant 
places  along  the  rivor,  we  discovered,  of  sun-warmed 
or  branch-shaded  rocks.  There  were  vineyards 
hanging  on  the  slopes  of  the  valley,  there  were  cool 
chestnut  glens,  there  were  other  farms  and  other 
villas — though  none  so  noble  as  ours.  At  night,  too, 
as  spring  lengthened  into  summer,  we  often  strolled 
up  the  road  toward  Austria  or  down  toward  Bassano, 
stopping  to  chat  at  the  podere  on  our  way  back. 
Graziosa  would  always  light  us  upstairs,  as  she  had 
done  that  first  night.  Then  we  always  ended  by 
sitting  in  the  loggia  by  ourselves,  not  without  more 
chatter.  God  knows  where  we  found  so  much  to 
say,  but  we  were  never  through.  Still,  v/e  also  found 


282  BEHIND   THE   DOOR 

time  to  listen  to  the  river  and  the  nightingales,  to 
watch  the  fireflies  in  the  garden,  the  stars  above  the 
the  jagged  dark  rim  of  the  valley,  the  distant  twinkle 
of  the  plain. 
It  was  an  unforgettable  summer. 


To  us  it  was  unforgettable.  Otherwise  We  must 
have  flitted  long  before  we  did  to  scenes  where  we 
needed  to  walk  less  softly.  Yet  just  that  necessity 
of  walking  softly  was  part  of  the  lure.  Like  so  much 
else  of  life,  however,  it  was  in  great  part  a  thing  of 
atmosphere,  of  colour,  of  accent,  of  states  of  feeling, 
of  moments  so  real  to  us  but  so  impossible  to  capture 
in  word  or  line  that  I  oftenest  think  of  Castello 
Montughi  in  terms  of  music.  It  was  another  similar 
ity  of  that  episode  to  a  piece  of  music  that  while  the 
successive  phases  of  it  could  hardly  be  labelled  as 
chapters  or  acts,  the  transitions  between  them  were 
perfectly  clear.  We  had  begun  with  an  Andante. 
We  had  gone  on  to  an  Allegro  ma  non  troppo.  The 
third  movement — it  had  settled  down  into  a  Scherzo, 
of  the  mellower  kind.  And  the  final  resolution? 

That  was  a  Lamentoso.  And  the  transition,  when 
at  last  it  came,  was  so  unnerving  that  I  was  thankful 
my  wife  was  not  with  me.  She  had  been  having  a 
touch  of  malaria — due,  I  am  afraid,  to  the  dampness 
of  the  place.  I  was  not  really  uneasy  about  her, 
though,  beyond  asking  myself  whether  it  were  time 
for  us  to  make  a  move.  After  she  dropped  to  sleep, 


BEHIND   THE   DOOR  283 

late  in  the  evening,  I  went  out  to  stretch  my  legs  and 
get  a  breath  of  air. 

Without  any  definite  intention,  I  found  myself 
walking  up  the  valley.  That  was  the  direction  I  al 
ways  liked  best  after  sundown.  The  mountains 
stood  out  so  solemnly  against  the  stars,  and  the  river 
made  such  a  sound  in  the  dark.  I  can  hear  it  now. 
And  I  can  see  how  sombre  the  castle  and  its  merloned 
tower  loomed  before  me  when  I  went  back  that  night. 
It  put  me  in  mind  of  the  first  time  I  had  seen  them. 
As  I  drew  near  the  gate,  too,  I  heard  the  dog.  But 
it  was  no  bark  that  came  from  him.  It  was  a  howl, 
long  drawn  and  mournful.  In  a  moment,  however, 
I  discovered  what  pulled  me  up  short.  For  there 
were  lights  in  the  little  chapel. 

My  first  thought  was  of  fire— until  I  had  time  to 
note  that  the  light  was  perfectly  steady,  and  to  re 
flect  that  there  was  probably  nothing  left  in  the 
chapel  to  burn.  Whereupon,  as  I  watched  the  glim 
mer  of  the  dusty  old  leaded  panes,  I  grew  extremely 
uncomfortable.  In  fact  the  hour,  the  uncanny  noise 
of  the  dog,  the  unaccustomed  circumstance  of  the 
illuminated  chapel,  all  the  other  circumstances  of  the 
place,  combined  to  give  me  a  sensation  I  have  rarely 
experienced.  There  have  been  times  when  I  would 
be  ashamed  to  make  such  a  confession.  But  years 
have  emboldened  me  to  think  that  fearlessness  is  an 
insensibility  of  the  nerves  which  a  man  should  pray 
to  be  delivered  from.  His  affair  is  to  be  scared  as 
often  and  as  violently  as  he  pleases,  but  to  keep  his 


284  BEHIND   THE   DOOR 

head.  Which,  I  presume,  was  the  reason  why  it 
seemed  to  me  worthy  to  investigate.  I  therefore  tip 
toed  around  to  the  other  entrance,  where  I  almost 
yielded  to  a  temptation  to  wake  up  the  peasants. 
Luckily  Abracadabra  saved  me  from  it  by  bounding 
at  me  out  of  the  dark  with  a  growl.  When  he  recog 
nised  me  he  trotted  quietly  along  beside  me.  That 
growl,  however,  reminded  me  of  another  time  when 
I  had  investigated,, and  had  been  sorry  for  it.  I  gave 
Abracadabra  a  good-night  pat  and  went  into  the 
house. 

I  found  my  wife  still  asleep.  I  could  make  out  her 
quiet  breathing,  and  the  soft  curve  of  her  arm  across 
the  pillow.  As  I  bent  over  her  I  heard  Abracadabra 
again.  I  went  out  to  the  loggia.  It  was  too  late  for 
nightingales.  There  were  cicadas,  now,  in  the  cy 
presses.  The  melancholy  shrilling  of  them,  out  of  the 
black  shadow,  affected  me  almost  as  much  as  the 
dog.  He  had  stopped  his  noise,  though.  I  could  see 
the  ghostly  shape  of  him  down  on  the  terrace,  wait 
ing.  I  don't  know — I  felt  a  sudden  shame  of  my 
retreat.  I  tiptoed  back  to  my  room,  picked  up  my 
revolver,  touched  the  soft  arm  on  the  pillow  with  my 
lips,  and  stole  down  stairs. 

The  dog  ran  to  meet  me  at  the  terrace  door,  wag 
ging  his  tail  and  sticking  his  cold  nose  into  my  hand. 
We  turned  the  corner,  we  passed  the  low  arch  leading 
into  the  kitchen.  The  two  little  windows  beside  it 
were  dark.  So  were  the  loopholes  of  the  tower. 
But,  beyond  that  redoubtable  angle,  I  found  the 


BEHIND  THE  DOOR  285 

light  still  burning  in  the  chapel.  I  wished  the  door 
were  open  at  least  a  crack.  I  also  wished,  in  spite  of 
Abracadabra's  company,  that  I  had  not  undertaken 
to  prove  I  was  not  a  coward.  I  stood  there  looking, 
listening,  seeing  nothing  but  those  faintly  lighted 
panes,  hearing  nothing  but  the  cicadas  and  the 
river.  I  wondered  if  it  were  the  sound  of  my 
own  blood,  unwilling  as  I  was  to  go  forward  or  to 
go  back. 

Presently,  from  inside  the  chapel,  I  heard  a  violin. 
Of  that,  this  time,  there  could  be  no  doubt.  And  in 
the  stillness  I  recognised  that  sobbing  theme  from 
the  Sixth  Symphony  of  Chaikovsky,  which  every 
body  knows  and  sentimentalises  over  or  laughs  at. 
But  nobody  ever  heard  it  as  I  heard  it  that  night  in 
the  shadow  of  Castello  Montughi,  while  cicadas 
chanted  ethereally  in  the  black  cypresses  and  the 
Brenta  muttered  among  its  rocks.  I  didn't  laugh. 
I  stood  quivering.  The  theme  swept  on  to  its  climax, 
returned,  flowered  magically,  tragically,  into  devel 
opments  I  had  never  listened  to  or  dreamed.  If  I 
can't  play  a  violin  myself,  I  have  sat  in  front  of  all 
the  Russians  and  Jews  and  Gypsies  who  can.  But 
no  one  of  them  ever  let  loose  with  his  bow  such  pent- 
up  passion  and  misery.  Not  one,  ever.  There  was 
no  mere  poetry  in  that  violin.  There  was  heart 
break  in  it.  There  was  damnation  in  it.  There  were 
wild  tears,  pleading,  hunger,  hopelessness,  remorse. 
There  was  in  it  all  of  life  that  is  unfulfilled  and  not 
to  be  assuaged  and  beyond  utterance.  And  all 


286  BEHIND   THE   DOOR 

poured  out  in  a  tone  of  gold,  with  the  stroke  of  a  god 
— or  a  demon. 

No  wonder  that  infernal  dog  started  howling  again. 
I  could  have  howled  myself.  I'm  not  sure  that  I 
didn't.  However,  before  I  could  stop  him  the  dog 
broke  away  from  me.  He  leaped  forward  to  the 
chapel  door,  scratched  at  it,  finally  threw  his  big 
body  against  it.  The  latch  gave  and  the  door  flew 
open.  The  dog  disappeared  inside.  As  he  did  so  I 
heard,  instead  of  the  music,  a  sort  of  crack  and  a 
brief  whine.  But  what  I  saw,  across  the  dark  court, 
left  me  no  time  to  think  of  that.  For  the  moment  I 
was  too  astonished  even  to  be  startled.  Little  as  I 
had  expected  what  lay  behind  the  door,  I  expected 
nothing  less  than  those  two  great  candles  and  that 
statuesque  profile  upturned  between  them.  The 
delicate  line  of  the  profile  was  incredibly  white 
against  the  frescoed  wall  of  the  chapel.  Then  it 
came  over  me  that  she  was  not  carved  in  marble,  on 
a  mediaeval  tomb,  but  that  she  was  dead,  lying  there 
on  her  bier,  in  her  capella  ardente — that  woman 
whose  exquisitely  cut  features  wore  such  an  air  of 
race. 

For  what  I  did  afterward  I  don't  know  whether 
I  had  an  excuse  or  not.  At  first  I  was  absurdly, 
horribly,  shaken.  I  have  a  physical  shrinking  from 
death  that  is  too  much  for  me.  I  would  rather  have 
faced  any  marauder  than  that  dead  princess  whom  I 
had  never  seen,  lying  so  white  and  silent  between  her 
candles,  with  her  black  hair  sweeping  down  about 


BEHIND   THE   DOOR  287 

her.  Then  the  violin:  there  had  been  about  it  some 
thing  unearthly.  Could  I  have  been  imagining 
again?  Could  that  have  been  a  music  of  the  super 
natural?  But  as  my  senses  grew  calmer,  as  there 
came  back  to  me  the  remembrance  of  all  that  had 
set  this  place  so  apart  in  my  life,  as  I  thought  of  the 
warm  arm  I  had  kissed  a  few  minutes  ago,  watching 
that  profile  whose  still  beauty  seemed  the  very  image 
of  a  pure  and  noble  pride,  the  mystery  and  awesome- 
ness  of  it  moved  me  less  than  a  kind  of  passion  of 
pity — that  she  should  be  lying  alone  there  in  the  night, 
with  no  one  but  a  dog  beside  her.  And,  yielding  to 
a  sudden  impulse,  I  walked  into  the  chapel. 

Never,  but  never,  did  I  regret  an  impulse  more. 

Principe  Montughi  was  standing  at  the  foot  of  the 
bier,  his  great  head  sunk  between  his  powerful 
shoulders,  his  strange  pale  eyes  on  the  white  face 
between  the  candles.  My  own  astounded  eyes  took 
him  in,  the  two  pieces  of  a  violin  bow  in  the  hands 
clasped  before  him,  the  broken  violin  between  the 
paws  of  the  dog  lying  at  his  feet.  My  emotion 
flashed  into  an  embarrassment  so  acute  that  I  could 
neither  speak  nor  move.  But  he  did  not  break  out 
on  me  as  I  expected — as  I  deserved.  He  did  not 
even  look  at  me,  at  first.  And  when  he  did  it  was  as 
if  I  were  not  there. 

"Too  late,"  he  muttered.  "Too  late.  She  will 
not  hear  me,  now.  And  when  she  could  I  would  not 
play  to  her." 

His  eyes  were  stranger  and  paler  than  ever.    In 


288  BEHIND   THE  DOOR 

the  candle  light  they  were  like  two  spots  of  phos 
phorescence.  Then  they  changed.  I  could  see  him 
slowly  search  my  face,  the  revolver  in  my  hand,  the 
night  behind  me.  Something  of  it  was  in  his  eyes 
when  they  came  back  to  my  face.  Finally  he  spoke 
again. 

"Is  your  wife  honest?"  he  asked. 

For  very  amazement  I  failed  to  realise  the  import 
of  his  question.  The  scene  and  the  man  appalled 
me.  He  had  met  me  a  few  hours  before,  with  the 
same  self-possession.  He  could  not  long  have  put 
off  that  grotesque  masquerade  which  secretly  amused 
me.  Yet  the  Princess  must  have  been  already  dead, 
or  dying.  I  began — I  don't  know  what  I  began  to 
think.  Then  I  suddenly  recollected  that  in  Italian 
the  Prince's  adjective  had  a  particular  meaning,  as 
applied  to  a  woman. 

"Is  that  why  you  shut  her  up  here?"  I  burst  out 
in  indignation,  in  divination. 

But  I  grew  humble  as  he  continued  to  stare  at  me. 
It  was  as  if  I  could  look  through  his  blank  eyes  into 
a  place  of  extremity  which  was  not  good  to  see. 

"No,"  he  replied  at  last.  "That  is — she  never 
would  tell  me." 

He  said  it  quite  simply,  gazing  down  at  the  proud 
white  face  on  the  bier  with  a  hypnotic  intensity  of 
demand.  It  made  my  anger  shrivel  away  into  no 
thing.  It  made  me  shiver.  I  saw  something  dreadful 
in  the  smile  just  touching  the  dead  woman's  lips — a 
smile  of  Leonardo  that  was  what  you  chose.  But  to 


BEHIND   THE   DOOR  289 

me  it  was  less  dreadful  than  the  sighing  admission 
of  the  man's  words.  They  somehow  grew  up  mon 
strously  before  me  in  the  candle-light  of  the  little 
painted  chapel.  They  painted  for  me  a  picture  of 
pride  more  terrifying  than  anything  I  had  conceived. 
Inscrutably  they  unlocked  the  tower  into  which  I 
had  never  stepped,  peopled  the  lonely  castle,  haunted 
that  fairy  aisle  of  cypresses.  Inexorably  they 
uncovered  for  me,  •behind  the  smiling  mask  of  my 
own  life,  the  ghosts  of  sorrow  and  defeat,  forebod 
ings  blacker  and  more  intolerable  still. 

The  poignancy  of  that  revelation  choked  me, 
blinded  me.  I  staggered  back  into  the  dark,  leaving 
Montughi  to  take  what  answer  he  could  from  the 
mute  lips  of  his  Princess. 


THE   BALD   SPOT 

HOW'LL  you  have  it,  sir?"  asked  the  barber: 
"Wet  or  dry?" 
"It  depends,"  answered  Jerry.     "In  po* 
litics  I'm  for  the  wet.    In  hair-cuts  it's  dry  for  mine/5 

He  regarded  the  mirror  not  without  complacency, 
studying  the  image  which  he  there  beheld  of  a  young 
man  about  town  and  noting  incidentally  how  much 
it  improved  the  appearance  of  the  same  to  be  well 
cropped. 

The  barber,  a  cold  man  and  an  assured,  met  his 
eye  in  the  glass: 

"I'm  with  you  in  politics.  But  when  it  comes  to 
hair-cuts  I  like  a  little  brilliantine.  Your  hair  seems 
to  be  getting  a  bit  thin,  too.  How  about  an  applica 
tion  of  Pinaud?" 

An  application!  Jerry  shook  a  bored  head.  He 
knew  them  of  old,  these  barbers,  with  their  soaps, 
their  singeings,  their  powders,  their  pastes,  their 
variously  perfumed  waters,  and  their  endless  inge 
nuities  for  parting  a  customer  and  his  money.  The 
concluding  rites  of  the  occasion  were  conducted  in  a 
refined  silence. 

"Will  that  do,  sir?"  the  barber  inquired  at  length, 
throwing  off  the  swathing  cloths  of  his  victim.  "I'll 

290 


THE  BALD  SPOT  291 

show  you  how  it  looks."  He  produced  a  hand-glass 
which  he  manipulated  in  such  a  way  as  to  reveal  to 
Jerry  the  back  of  his  own  head. 

Jerry  saw  how  it  looked.  He  never  had  seen  it 
look  that  way  before.  And  what  he  saw  disturbingly 
diminished  his  complacency.  He  therefore  distrib 
uted  more  lavish  gratuities  than  was  his  wont.  Then 
he  fled,  conscious  but  of  two  purposes.  The  first  was 
to  put  forever  behind  him  the  discoverer  of  his 
shame.  The  second  was  to  ascertain  as  quickly  as 
possible  the  true  facts  of  his  case. 

He  was  not  a  man,  Jerry,  greatly  given  to  the  mir 
ror.  Not  that  he  was  above  criticising  the  effect  of  a 
tie  or  the  cut  of  a  coat.  But  there  were  studies 
which  he  pursued  more  assiduously  than  that  of 
Narcissus.  When,  however,  he  at  last  locked  him 
self  into  his  own  room  it  was  with  feverish  haste 
that  he  seized  his  shaving-glass  and  made  for  the 
bureau.  He  then  held  the  glass  on  high,  tipped  it 
this  way  and  that,  finally  caught  the  right  angle. 

Yes — he  met  the  cruel  confirmation  with  as  bold 
a  front  as  he  could — it  was  only  too  true.  There  it 
was,  the  Spot,  inexorable,  vivid,  glaring  at  him  like 
a  malignant  eye.  There  were  things  in  that  eye. 
There  were  things —  The  sensation  it  gave  him  was 
too  absurd. 

He  tried  to  laugh  it  away. 

"'Out,  damned  spot!'"  he  exclaimed.  And  he  put 
the  glass  down.  It  was  idiotic  to  be  prinking  there 
like  a  girl  in  her  first  ball-dress.  As  he  walked  across 


292  THE  BALD  SPOT 

the  room,  however,  he  could  not  resist  a  temptation 
to  feel  of  the  place.  He  began  to  rummage  gingerly 
in  his  hair.  The  barber  was  right — he  felt  a  sudden 
flash  of  fury  at  the  fellow! — it  was  not  so  thick  as  it 
had  been.  Yet  it  felt  as  it  did  yesterday,  the  day 
before,  the  day  before  that.  Could  he  not  be  mis 
taken?  He  must  take  one  more  look. 

He  did  so,  this  time  adjusting  the  complicated 
reflections  more  easily.  But  his  adjuration  had  been 
of  no  avail.  Nay,  his  own  touch  had  deceived  him. 
The  Spot  was  not  out.  It  was  in — very  much  in.  It 
was  in  to  stay.  It  looked  at  him,  whichever  way  he 
turned,  like  a  horrid  leering  eye.  It  stared  him  out 
of  countenance. 

He  threw  the  glass  down  again  and  once  more 
tried  persiflage. 

"'Go  up,  bald-head  I'"  he  jeered  at  himself,  aloud. 

It  sounded  distinctly  foolish  in  the  empty  room. 
The  late  sunshine  pouring  in  through  the  windows 
made  him  feel  as  if  someone  had  caught  him  making 
an  ass  of  himself.  He  flung  himself  on  the  lounge  and 
proceeded  in  a  detached  manner  to  study  the  beau 
ties  of  the  ceiling.  As  he  tilted  his  head  to  do  so,  he 
scraped  the  wall  paper.  The  sudden  chill  of  it  against 
his  scalp  made  him  jump  up  as  if  he  had  been  brand 
ed.  But  the  iron  did  not  stop  at  his  skull.  It  went 
on  down  through  him.  He  could  almost  hear  it 
sizzle  in  his  soul. 

"Well,"  he  remarked  with  forced  philosophy,  "it's 


THE  BALD  SPOT  293 

Just  what  had  come,  he  did  not  for  the  moment 
specify.  Perhaps  he  could  not  have  done  so.  It  was 
something  very  upsetting,  though,  even  if  it  were 
ridiculous;  and  philosophy  didn't  seem  to  help  it 
any  better  than  persiflage.  And  the  more  he  con 
sidered  it  the  nastier  it  grew.  It  gradually  filled  him 
with  a  curious  cold  pang.  It  filled  the  room.  He 
could  not  bear  it. 

"All  right,"  he  growled  sardonically,  looking  for 
his  hat.  "If  it  won't  'out'  by  itself,  we'll  have  to 
take  it  out.  It's  too  damned  stuffy  in  here." 

He  realised  the  importance  of  the  occasion,  as 
being  his  first  public  appearance  in  the  character  of 
a  bald-headed  man.  It  made  him  self-conscious  and 
apologetic.  It  likewise  made  him  welcome  the  oppor 
tunity  of  wearing  a  hat.  For  he  felt  that  within 
doors,  hereafter,  the  eyes  of  men  would  mockingly 
follow  him  wherever  he  moved.  At  the  very  mo 
ment,  however,  of  stepping  into  the  air  his  attempted 
assurance  failed  him.  An  old  gentleman  happened 
to  be  passing — an  old  gentleman  below  the  rear  of 
whose  hat  brim  projected  into  the  light  of  day  a 
ludicrous  pink  half  moon.  Jerry  instinctively, 
albeit  unobtrusively,  sought  the  corresponding  region 
of  his  own  person. 

"Huh!"  he  grunted  in  relief.  "I  guess  we're  not 
quite  so  bad  as  that — yet  a  while." 

He  resumed  his  progress  a  trifle  more  at  ease.  But 
fatalities  beset  him.  Boys  were  playing  ball  in  the 
street,  under  horses'  hoofs  and  in  defiance  of  the 


294  THE   BALD   SPOT 

police.  Most  of  them  were  bare-headed.  He  be 
lieved  they  did  it  on  purpose  to  show  off  their  little 
polls,  how  absurdly  uniform  they  were  in  colour. 
A  sudden  resentment  boiled  in  him  against  them,  as 
if  he  had  been  the  Prophet  Elisha;  and  he  yearned  to 
set  bears  on  them.  He  would  throw  in  the  barber 
as  the  piece  de  resistance.  That  barber!  Jerry  had 
half  a  mind  to  go  back  and —  But  he  dismissed  these 
low  themes  from  his  mind.  As  he  turned  the  corner, 
though,  the  first  thing  he  beheld  was  the  portrait,  on 
a  bill-board,  of  a  splendid  gentleman  with  Jove-like 
locks,  waving  a  majestic  hand  toward  the  name  of 
the  preparation  which  had  performed  so  enviable  a 
miracle. 

"Really,"  muttered  Jerry  to  himself,  "I  must  look 
those  people  up.  I'm  not  so  far  gone,  after  all.  And 
at  my  age—  You  never  can  tell." 

Then  a  motor  car  went  by.  There  were  four  per 
sons  in  it — two  young  men  and  two  girls,  hatless  all. 
Jerry's  eyes  followed  them  hopefully.  If  only  they 
would  justify  him!  But  no  Spot  was  there.  The 
young  people  whirled  gaily  up  the  Avenue  as  if  the 
world  belonged  to  them.  And  Jerry  knew  it  did. 
His  heart  sank  again.  The  smartness  of  the  car,  the 
prettiness  of  the  girls,  the  hilarity  and  unconcern  of 
the  whole  business,  smote  him  like  a  blow. 

"Yes,"  he  thought,  "it's  come.  And  why  should 
it  come  to  me  rather  than  to  them?  Are  they  more 
virtuous  than  I?  Are  they  more  learned?  Do  they 
know  Gothic  architecture  from  Renaissance?  Or  a 


THE  BALD  SPOT  295 

cosine  from  an  ensign?    No.    But  they  have  more 
hair.    Therefore— Q.  E.  D.!" 

This  cryptic  conclusion,  with  its  somewhat  mixed 
references,  apparently  had  the  effect  of  guiding 
Jerry's  thoughts  into  more  definite  channels. 
"They,"  as  he  walked,  became  the  burden  of  his 
meditations.  They  made  for  him  a  composite  of 
eyes  grey,  blue,  black,  brown — even  the  modern 
hues  of  yellow  and  green;  of  auburn,  chestnut, 
bronze,  golden,  raven,  and  every  other  shade  of  hair 
celebrated  by  poets;  of  aspects  rosy  or  pale,  grave  or 
smiling,  ingenuous  or  subtle.  They  were  V.enuses, 
Madonnas,  Medeas,  Giocondas — the  whole  gallery 
of  types  most  provocative  to  man.  He  had  always 
vaguely  expected  that  one  of  them — perhaps  all  of 
them:  such  things  were  not  unknown! — would  some 
day  appear,  and —  Well,  he  had  never  quite  settled 
what  was  to  happen  next.  It  wouldn't  exactly  do 
for  them  to  fall  on  his  neck  at  that  stage  of  the  game. 
That  would  cut  out  too  many  of  the  preliminary 
thrills  incident  to  these  adventures.  Neither  would 
he  fall  on  their  neck.  It  would  be  too  public.  They 
might  not  like  it.  They  would  probably  run  away 
if  he  tried.  At  all  events,  something  very  breathless 
was  to  take  place.  He  was  to  pursue  them  over  land 
and  sea.  He  was  to  endure  fire  and  sword  for  their 
sake.  And  in  the  end  they  were,  so  to  speak,  to  fall 
into  his  mouth  like  ripe  plums.  Or  perhaps  it 
wouldn't  come  to  anything  in  the  end.  Things 
didn't,  nowadays.  But  at  least  it  was  going  to  be 


296  THE  BALD  SPOT 

very  ravaging  for  somebody.  If  it  didn't  turn  out  a 
Browning  business  it  might  turn  out  a  Tristan  and 
Isolde  affair.  And  Tristan  and  Isolde,  as  a  domestic 
tableau,  were  almost  more  telling  than  the  Brown 
ings.  Or  the  denouement  was  to  be  a  noble  renun 
ciation,  with  moving  scenes  of  parting;  and  he  was 
to  finish  up  grandly  with  an  exploded  volcano  for  a 
heart. 

The  only  trouble  was  that  he  had  never  yet  en 
countered  "them."  Julia  Jenkins,  hitherto,  had 
been  his  sole  approach  to  them;  and  whatever  else 
Julia  might  be,  she  certainly  was  no  Venus.  Least 
of  all  was  she  a  Madonna,  a  Medea,  or  a  Gioconda. 
And  now  they,  the  others,  had  maddeningly  flashed 
past  him  at  the  one  moment  in  life  when  he  found 
himself  least  disposed  to  speed  after  them.  For  a 
bald  spot,  somehow  or  other,  did  not  harmonise  with 
the  order  of  experiences  he  had  been  considering. 
He  inwardly  contemplated  the  spectacle  of  a  gentle 
man  so  afflicted  pursuing  Beauty  o'er  moor  and  fen, 
his  Spot  gleaming  pale  behind  him  as  he  sped;  and 
Jerry  laughed  grimly  to  himself.  But  there  was 
more  in  it  than  a  laugh.  Was  not  Beauty  the  por 
tion  of  every  man?  And  if  Fate  were  so  ironical  as 
to  withhold  her  until  Time  had  shown  his  tooth, 
must  she  then  forever  be  foresworn?  It  was  too  ig 
noble — the  way  tragedy  and  comedy  ran  together  in 
the  world.  He  tried  to  console  himself,  for  this 
chaotic  state  of  affairs,  with  the  volcano:  by  fancy 
ing  that  he  was  already  dead  to  the  world.  But  even 


THE   BALD   SPOT  297 

that  failed — unless  extinct  volcanoes  felt  as  uncom 
fortable  inside  as  he  did. 

"My  good  fellow/'  he  admonished  himself  with 
some  heat,  "you  started  out  to  take  a  walk  as  a  bald- 
headed  man,  and  you'd  better  finish  it  in  that  char 
acter.  You  mistook  your  role;  that's  all.  [Some  peo 
ple  are  born  to  autos  and  ambrosial  locks.  Other 
people  are  born  to  a  bald  spot  and  the  L.  You 
imagined  you  belonged  to  the  former  class,  but  it 
turns  out  you  don't.  So  the  sooner  you  stop  trying 
to  cover  your  nakedness  with  a  hat,  and  the  sooner 
you  take  to  your  predestined  conveyance,  the  less 
will  you  be  like  a  whited  sepulchre  full  of  dead  men's 
bones." 

In  accordance  with  which  principle  he  removed  his 
last  year's  Panama  and  made  for  the  nearest  Elevat 
ed  station.  The  next  instant  he  realised  that  only 
on  impulse  could  his  courage  have  risen  to  such  a 
pitch.  He  expected  that  boys  would  follow  him, 
hooting;  that  a  mob  would  collect  to  point  at  him 
the  finger  of  scorn.  But  no:  the  public  took  it  quite 
as  a  matter  of  course  that  a  young  man  of  his  age 
and  talents  should  begin  to  look  a  little  the  worse 
for  wear  and  should  patronise  such  rapid  transit 
facilities  as  were  within  the  means  of  the  proletariat. 
They  took  it  so  much  as  a  matter  of  course  that 
Jerry  began  to  forget  his  agitation  in  chagrin.  He 
even  mounted  the  steps  of  a  station  and  boarded  the 
first  train  without  asking  himself  where  he  was  going. 

It  was  with  some  surprise  that  he  presently  dis- 


298  THE   BALD  SPOT 

covered  himself  to  be  jolting  northward,  on  a  level 
with  third  and  fourth  storey  windows.  He  found  a 
certain  distraction  in  glancing  into  these  as  he  passed. 
It  appeared  to  him  that  on  every  other  sill  leaned  a 
bald-headed  man,  who  gave  him  a  pointed  look — as 
who  should  say:  "Don't  take  it  so  hard,  my  poor 
young  man.  You  will  have  company."-  They  got 
on  his  nerves,  those  bald-headed  apes.  Most  of  them 
were  in  shirt-sleeves,  too.  He  was  ready  to  bestow 
the  most  extravagant  admiration  upon  the  Park, 
when  the  train  rounded  the  great  curve  at  110th 
Street.  And  the  arch  of  the  unfinished  Cathedral 
had  a  romantically  ruinous  effect  against  the  in 
candescent  sky.  These  things,  however,  for  some 
reason  reminded  him  of  the  young  people  in  the  car. 
"  They're  probably  visiting  the  chateaux  of  the  Loire 
by  this  time,"  he  reflected.  "I  wonder  how  they 
like  it.  This  is  the  kind  of  travelling  we  do — we  bald- 
headed  people."  And  he  relapsed  into  the  volcanic 
mood.  .  . 

"One  hundred  and  fifty-fifth  Street!  All  out!" 
bawled  an  unsympathetic  conductor. 

Jerry  got  up  from  his  revery  with  the  idea  of  taking 
the  next  train  back.  There  seemed  nothing  else  to 
do — for  one  born  to  the  L.  But  when  he  emerged 
into  the  maze  of  platforms  and  tracks  and  stairways, 
he  found  them  so  vividly  intershot  by  red  rays  from 
another  level  of  existence  that  he  was  moved  to 
mount  to  the  viaduct.  As  he  did  so  he  mounted  into 
the  climax  of  a  sunset.  The  glamour  of  it  glorified  his 


THE   BALD   SPOT  299 

squalid  surroundings.  It  touched  the  confusion  of 
traffic  with  a  glint  of  romance.  It  turned  the  Har 
lem  into  a  river  of  enchantment.  Jerry  glanced  but 
coldly  about  him,  however.  He  thought  of  the  valley 
of  the  Loire.  And  the  sight  of  an  Amsterdam  Ave 
nue  trolley  running  black  against  the  west  made  him 
bend  his  steps  toward  that  end  of  the  viaduct. 

"That's  what  we  bald-headed  people  do,"  he  said 
to  himself :  "  We  go  to  Fort  George.  We  then  mount 
Ferris  Wheels  and  view  the  landscape  o'er.  Thus  do 
we  visit  the  valley  of  the  Loire."  And  with  that  idea 
he  boarded  the  next  car.  But  at  181st  Street  he 
changed  his  mind.  The  sight  of  Washington  Bridge 
suddenly  drew  him.  "Go  to,"  he  thought:  "Why 
shouldn't  we  take  in  our  Loire  here  and  now?"  To 
which  end  he  sauntered  easterly  across  the  little 
plaza. 

He  had  not  gone  far  on  the  bridge  before  he 
stopped.  At  last  he  was  really  caught.  The  splen 
dour  had  died  out  of  the  air — the  barbaric  and  obvi 
ous  splendour  which  had  failed  to  move  him  before. 
There  was  now  a  warm  twilight  in  which  the  stream 
running  deep  between  its  banks,  the  wooded  slopes, 
the  arches  of  High  Bridge,  the  slim  water-tower, 
took  on  an  aspect  almost  of  antiquity.  But  that  and 
the  mysterious  vista  beyond — the  turn  of  the  river, 
the  fading  haze  of  roofs,  out  of  which  myriads  of 
lights  began  to  flicker  with  a  brassy  pallor — needed 
no  antiquity  to  make  them  extraordinarily  pic 
turesque. 


300  THE  BALD  SPOT 

Jerry  leaned  on  the  parapet  and  took  it  in.  The 
view  might  have  been  one  he  never  had  seen.  This 
wonderful  valley  led  to  a  city  he  knew  naught  of. 
The  strange  impression,  and  the  surprise  of  discov 
ering  a  real  beauty,  led  him  back  in  thought  to  the 
city  to  which  he  had  come  from  college — how  curi 
ously  long  ago!  He  recalled  that  other  impression 
of  strangeness.  Threading  in  imagination  the  long 
streets  that  somewhere  ran  there  in  the  dusk,  he 
remembered  how  they  looked  to  him  when  first  he 
wandered  through  them — in  search  of  something  to 
do.  How  vast  and  forbidding  their  towers  had 
loomed  above  him!  Would  any  of  them  give  en 
trance  to  him  when  he  knocked?  And  which  would 
be  the  one?  He  had  knocked  at  a  good  many,  too. 
An  amazing  number  had  been  oblivious  to  the  hon 
our  of  harbouring  him.  Huge  as  they  were,  they 
were  all  jammed  to  the  roof  with  cheerful  busy 
superior  persons,  who  naturally  had  no  mind  to  jam 
themselves  still  tighter  at  a  mere  knock  from  with 
out.  But  one  of  the  towers  did  take  him  in  at  last — 
the  one  in  Park  Row  which  made  an  end  to  his  wan 
derings,  only  to  send  him  out  on  wanderings  more 
painful  still. 

He  thought  of  them,  looking  back  into  the  twilight 
that  deepened  above  their  sky,  as  of  things  al 
most  impersonal.  He  thought,  too,  how  different 
it  had  come  to  seem — being  a  cheerful  busy  superior 
person  in  one  of  the  towers!  For  he  had  lived 
through  a  reporter's  probation  days,  had  climbed  at 


THE   BALD   SPOT  301 

last  to  a  desk  high  above  the  city,  where  the  city 
noises  came  to  him  rather  musically  in  their  mingling. 
But,  listening  to  them  year  after  year,  he  had  never 
heard  what  he  always  expected  he  would  hear  at  last 
— the  sound  of  his  own  fame.  So  many  names  came 
up  from  the  newsboys'  throats,  those  criers  of  im 
mortality:  should  not  his  own  one  day  be  borne  to 
him?  And  for  better  reasons  than  gave  men  the 
notoriety  of  an  hour — like  falling  into  a  man-hole  or 
finding  a  lost  jewel?  Well,  there  was  no  reason — 
except  that  he  had  never  done  anything.  .  . 

"Doing  things!"  That  was  another  piece  of 
youth,  like  the  young  ladies  of  his  more  romantic 
moments.  He  had  never  been  able  very  narrowly 
to  define  them,  the  things.  In  that  case  he  probably 
would  have  done  them.  But  they  were  of  a  highly 
decorative  order.  They  were  also  to  prove  of  in 
estimable  benefit  to  the  World  at  large — with  a  large 
W.  And  the  World's  gratitude,  incidentally,  would 
enable  him  to  retire  to  private  life  on  the  proceeds. 
After  which  there  would  be  an  appropriate  tablet  up 
there  in  the  Hall  of  Fame,  and  a  column  or  two  in 
future  encyclopaedias.  Whereas  now — 

With  the  very  impulse  to  smile  indulgently  at  him 
self,  there  flashed  on  Jerry  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life  the  full  sense  of  what  it  meant.  For  if  he  could 
smile  at  his  youth  and  the  vanities  of  his  youth,  it 
was  because  his  youth  was  gone.  And  that  was  no 
smiling  matter.  That  was  what  had  hung  over  him 
all  the  afternoon.  That  was  what  he  had  been  trying 


302  THE  BALD  SPOT 

to  get  away  from.  But  now  he  had  to  face  it.  It 
was  all  very  well  to  tell  himself  that  he  was  a  fool  to 
get  into  such  a  state  for  so  preposterous  a  reason; 
that  his  calamity  was  by  no  means  unique  in  the 
world;  that  he  was  not  so  old  after  all.  The  fact 
remained  that  his  youth,  his  premiere  jeunesse,  his 
golden  hour,  was  done  for. 

The  sudden  realisation  of  it  filled  him  with  a  pas 
sionate  bitterness.  What  under  the  sun  had  he  been 
thinking  of,  that  he  had  not  seen  that  priceless  thing 
slipping  through  his  fingers?  Where  had  it  gone? 
What  had  he  done  with  it?  What  had  he  to  show 
for  it?  It  seemed  to  him  that  the  darkness  which 
fell  while  his  thoughts  were  turning  in  this  hopeless 
round  was  symbolic  of  an  obscurity  that  for  him  had 
crept  into  the  sunlight  of  the  earth.  And  the  things 
he  had  lost  were  as  f airylike  and  unattainable  as  the 
magic  city  glittering  there  in  the  distance,  above 
those  shadowy  arches  printed  against  a  river  of  gold. 

He  scrambled  to  the  parapet  and  sat  staring  down 
into  the  underlying  chasm.  The  twinkle  of  the 
Speedway  and  the  jewelry  of  the  opposite  switches 
just  made  visible  the  water  between.  How  black  it 
was,  and  how  noiseless — like  another  Lethe!  The 
word  hung  in  his  mind  as  it  came  back  to  him  how 
casually  one  step  had  followed  another  this  after 
noon,  yet  how  irresistibly,  as  if  foreordained.  And 
one  step  more  would  take  him  into  oblivion.  .  . 
After  all,  why  not?  Wouldn't  it  be  logical?  Had  he 
any  real  reason  for  turning  around  and  going  back 


THE   BALD   SPOT  303 

to  life — save  sheer  cowardice?  The  accepted  reasons 
had  always  struck  him  as  being  childish  attempts  to 
decorate  a  raw  animal  impulse.  If  you  faced  the 
thing  honestly,  what  was  life,  anyway,  after  the 
climacteric  of  youth?  Nothing  but  a  long  drawn  out 
decay  of  the  body,  a  gradual  dulling  of  the  senses, 
an  imperceptible  slackening  of  the  will — a  slower 
and  more  humiliating  death.  For  a  man  with  some 
one  to  live  for  or  something  to  create,  it  might  be 
different.  But  for  him — 

"Well,  Buddy/'  uttered  a  cheerful  voice  behind 
him:  "Thinkin'  o'  jumpin'  overboard?" 

Jerry  did  jump,  but  not  in  the  direction  indicated; 
and  his  fingers  caught  instinctively  at  the  inner  edge 
of  the  parapet.  In  the  dim  light  he  discovered  his 
interlocutor  to  be  a  policeman,  built  in  the  generous 
proportions  of  his  kind  and  of  the  age  that  has 
yielded  to  the  elderly  spread. 

"You  don't  seem  to  be  doing  very  much  to  stop 
it,"  Jerry  replied  without  hauteur. 

"Looks  that  way,  don't  it?"  returned  the  guardian 
of  the  law  genially,  leaning  with  elbows  on  the  para 
pet.  "But  you  see  if  you  really  want  to  go,  you'll 
go;  an'  if  you  don't  there  ain't  no  reason  in  natur' 
why  you  shouldn't  enjoy  yourself  kickin'  your  heels 
over  Harlem  Speedway.  That's  how  it  strikes  me. 
Only  if  you  do  go  over,  just  do  me  the  favour  not  to 
pick  the  road.  You'd  be  surprised  to  see  what  a 
mess  you'd  make." 

Jerry,  considering  this  view  of  his  liberty,  gave  his 


304  THE   BALD  SPOT 

attention  to  a  train  which  swept  in  a  blur  of  light 
down  the  opposite  bank.  As  for  the  policeman,  he 
gave  his  attention  to  Jerry: 

"What's  the  matter?  Has  she  given  you  the  go 
by?" 

"No"  declared  Jerry,  with  a  shade  of  emphasis. 

"Been  fired  from  your  job  then,  I  s'pose,"  pursued 
he  of  the  helmet,  in  the  accent  of  one  acquainted 
with  disasters  more  calamitous  than  those  of  the 
heart. 

"Not  that  I've  heard  of,"  rejoined  Jerry. 

The  policeman  took  off  his  helmet  and  laid  it  on 
the  parapet  beside  him. 

"Pleasant  way  to  spend  an  evenin',  ain't  it?"  he 
said.  "You  make  up  your  mind  just  how  you'll  go, 
when  you  get  good  and  ready.  An'  then  you  wonder 
who'll  find  you  first,  an'  whether  they'll  take  you  to 
the  hospital  or  the  morgue,  an'  what  a  time  they'll 
have  figurin'  out  who  the  devil  you  are,  an'  how  blue 
your  folks'll  be,  an'  how  they'll  wish  they'd  given 
you  that  horse-shoe  stickpin  for  Christmas,  an'  how 
your  girl'll  go  on,  an'  all.  0  there  ain't  nothin'  like 
it  for  passin'  the  time." 

"Say"  demanded  Jerry,  turning  upon  his  com 
panion  with  some  loftiness,  "where  do  you  get  that 
stuff?" 

"Why?  Do  you  smell  it?"  asked  the  policeman. 
He  ran  the  powerful  hand  of  the  law  through  a  griz 
zled  pompadour. 

"N-no,"  returned  Jerry  slowly,  eyeing  this  opera- 


THE  BALD   SPOT  305 

tion  not  without  interest.  "You  don't  mean  to  say 
that  any  of  your  hair  ever  came  out,  do  you?  " 

"Huh-huh."  The  policeman's  singsong  betrayed 
no  surprise  at  this  abrupt  turn  of  the  conversation. 
"  It  started  droppin'  like  leaves  in  the  fall  o'  the  year, 
when  I  was  about  as  young  as  you." 

"What  did  you  do?"  inquired  Jerry,  not  displeased, 
a  little  incredulous,  and  now  unfeignedly  interested. 

"Why  I  used  oil,  if  you  want  a  straight  tip — just 
plain  castor  oil.  It's  twice  as  good  as  them  high- 
falutin  fixin's  they  soak  you  for  in  barber  shops.  It 
don't  spoil  your  pillow,  neither.  But  the  missus," 
he  added  on  reflection,  "she  says  a  bald  spot's  worse 
inside  the  bean  than  out,  an'  there  ain't  no  oil'll 
help  it." 

"  That's  quite  an  idea,"  commented  Jerry  elusively. 
He  leaned  back,  as  if  to  reconnoitre  the  field  of  ideas. 

The  policeman  accepted  this  tribute  of  respect. 
Then  he  replaced  his  helmet  on  his  well-covered 
crown  and  stuck  his  billy  under  his  arm. 

"Listen,  Bud,"  he  announced  confidentially:  "I 
got  another  idea.  Do  you  happen  to  have  as  much 
as  a  dollar  or  so  about  you?" 

"I  do,"  admitted  Jerry. 

"That's  fine,"  continued  the  policeman.  "Now 
what  do  you  say  we  go  over  to  a  place  I  know  an' 
let  me  treat  you  to  a  shot  o'  somethin'  wet?  My  old 
woman  gives  me  hell  if  I  hold  anythin'  out  on  her, 


Sure!"  said  Jerry. 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

/  returned,  and  saw  under  the  sun,  that  the  race  is  not  to  the  swift, 
nor  the  battle  to  the  strong,  neitfier  yet  bread  to  the  wise,  nor  yet 
riches  to  men  of  understanding,  nor  yet  favour  to  men  of  skill;  but 
time  and  chance  happeneth  to  them  all.  Ecclesiastes:  ix,  11. 


THE  first  of  the  two  boats  to  arrive  at  this  un- 
appointed  rendezvous  was  one  to  catch  the  eye 
even  in  that  river  of  strange  craft.  She  had 
neither  the  raking  bow  nor  the  rising  poop  of  the 
local  mehala,  but  a  tall  incurving  beak,  not  unlike 
those  of  certain  Mesopotamian  sculptures,  with  a 
windowed  and  curtained  deck-house  at  the  stern. 
Forward  she  carried  a  short  mast.  The  lateen  sail 
was  furled,  however,  and  the  galley  was  propelled  at 
a  fairly  good  gait  by  seven  pairs  of  long  sweeps. 
They  flashed  none  too  rhythmically,  it  must  be  add 
ed,  at  the  sun  which  had  just  risen  above  the  Persian 
mountains.  And  although  the  slit  sleeves  of  the 
fourteen  oarsmen,  all  of  them  young  and  none  of 
them  ill  to  look  upon,  flapped  decoratively  enough 
about  the  handles  of  the  sweeps,  they  could  not  be 
said  to  present  a  shipshape  appearance.  Neither  did 
the  black  felt  caps  the  boatmen  wore,  fantastically 

306 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM  307 

tall  and  knotted  about  their  heads  with  gay  fringed 
scarves. 

This  barge  had  passed  out  of  the  Ab-i-Diz  and  was 
making  its  stately  enough  way  across  the  basin  of 
divided  waters  below  Bund-i-Kir,  when  from  the 
mouth  of  the  Ab-i-Gerger — the  easterly  of  two  turbid 
threads  into  which  the  Karun  above  this  point  is 
split  by  a  long  island — there  shot  a  trim  white  motor- 
boat.  The  noise  she  made  in  the  breathless  summer  sun 
rise,  intensified  and  re-echoed  by  the  high  clay  banks 
which  here  rise  thirty  feet  or  more  above  the  water, 
caused  the  rowers  of  the  galley  to  look  around.  Then 
they  dropped  their  sweeps  in  astonishment  at  the 
spectacle  of  the  small  boat  advancing  so  rapidly  to 
ward  them  without  any  effort  on  the  part  of  the  four 
men  it  contained,  as  if  blown  by  the  breath  of  jinn. 
The  word  Firengi,  however,  passed  around  the  deck 
—that  word  so  flattering  to  a  great  race,  which  once 
meant  Frank  but  which  now,  in  one  form  or  another, 
describes  for  the  people  of  western  Asia  the  people 
of  Europe  and  their  cousins  beyond  the  seas.  Among 
the  friends  of  the  jinn,  of  whom  as  it  happened  only 
two  were  Europeans,  there  also  passed  an  explanatory 
word.  But  although  they  pronounced  the  strange 
oarsmen  to  be  Lurs,  they  caused  their  jinni  to  cease 
his  panting,  so  struck  were  they  by  the  appearance 
of  the  high-beaked  barge. 

The  two  craft  drifted  abreast  of  each  other  about 
midway  of  the  sunken  basin.  As  they  did  so,  one  of 
the  Europeans  in  the  motor-boat,  a  stocky  black- 


308  THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

moustached  fellow  in  blue  overalls,  wearing  in  place 
of  the  regulation  helmet  of  that  climate  a  greasy 
black  beret  over  one  ear,  lifted  his  hand  from  the 
wheel  and  called  out  the  Arabic  salutation  of  the 
country: 

"Peace  be  unto  you!" 

"And  to  you,  peace!"  responded  a  deep  voice  from 
the  doorway  of  the  deck-house.  It  was  evident  that 
the  utterer  of  this  friendly  antiphon  was  not  a  Lur. 
Fairer,  taller,  stouter,  and  older  than  his  wild-looking 
crew,  he  was  also  better  dressed — in  a  girdled  robe  of 
grey  silk,  with  a  striped  silk  scarf  covering  his  hair 
and  the  back  of  his  neck  in  the  manner  of  the  Arabs. 
A  thick  brown  beard  made  his  appearance  more  im 
posing,  while  two  scars  across  his  left  cheek,  emerging 
from  the  beard,  suggested  or  added  to  something  in 
him  which  might  on  occasion  become  formidable. 
As  it  was  he  stepped  forward  with  a  bow  and  ad 
dressed  a  slim  young  man  who  sat  in  the  stern  of  the 
motor-boat.  "Shall  we  pass  as  Kinglake  and  the 
Englishman  of  Eothen  did  in  the  desert,"  asked  the 
stranger,  smiling,  in  a  very  good  English,  "because 
they  had  not  been  introduced?  Or  will  you  do  me  the 
honour  to  come  on  board  my — ark?  " 

The  slim  young  man,  whose  fair  hair,  smooth  face, 
and  white  clothes  made  him  the  most  boyish  looking 
of  that  curious  company,  lifted  his  white  helmet  and 
smiled  in  return. 

"Why  not?"  he  assented.  And,  becoming  con 
scious  that  his  examination  of  this  surprising 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM  309 

stranger,  who  looked  down  at  him  with  odd  light 
eyes,  was  too  near  a  stare,  he  added:  "What  on 
earth  is  your  ark  made  of,  Mr.  Noah?  " 

What  she  was  made  of,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  was 
what  heightened  the  effect  of  remoteness  she  pro 
duced — a  hard  dark  wood  unknown  to  the  lower 
Karun,  cut  in  lengths  of  not  more  than  two  or  three 
feet  and  caulked  with  reeds  and  mud. 

"'Make  thee  an  ark  of  gopher  wood/"  quoted  the 
stranger.  "'Rooms  shalt  thou  make  in  the  ark,  and 
thou  shalt  pitch  it  within  and  without  with  pitch/" 

"Bitumen,  eh?"  exclaimed  the  slim  young  man. 
"Where  did  you  get  it?" 

"  Do  you  ask,  you  who  drill  oil  at  Meidan-i-Naft?  " 

"As  it  happens,  I  don't!"  smiled  the  slim  young 
man. 

"At  any  rate,"  continued  the  stranger,  after  a 
scarcely  perceptible  pause,  "let  me  welcome  you  on 
board  the  Ark."  And  when  the  unseen  jinni  had 
made  it  possible  for  the  slim  young  man  to  set  foot 
on  the  deck  of  the  barge,  the  stranger  added,  with  a 
bow:  "Magin  is  my  name — from  Brazil." 

If  the  slim  young  man  did  not  stare  again,  he  at 
least  had  time  to  make  out  that  the  oddity  of  his 
host's  light  eyes  lay  not  so  much  in  the  fact  of  their 
failing  to  be  distinctly  brown,  grey,  or  green,  as  that 
they  had  a  translucent  look.  Then  he  responded 
briefly,  holding  out  his  hand: 

"Matthews.  But  isn't  this  a  long  way  from  Rio 
de  Janeiro?" 


310  THE  EMPEROR   OF  ELAM 

"Well/'  returned  the  other,  "it's  not  so  near  Lon 
don!  But  come  in  and  have  something,  won't  you?" 
And  he  held  aside  the  reed  portiere  that  screened  the 
door  of  the  deck-house. 

"My  word!  You  do  know  how  to  do  yourself!" 
exclaimed  Matthews.  His  eye  took  in  the  Kerman 
embroidery  on  the  table  in  the  centre  of  the  small 
saloon,  the  gazelle  skins  and  silky  Shiraz  rugs  cover 
ing  the  two  divans  at  the  sides,  the  fine  Sumak  carpet 
on  the  floor,  and  the  lion  pelt  in  front  of  an  inner 
door.  "By  Jove!"  he  exclaimed  again.  "That's  a 
beauty!" 

"Ha!"  laughed  the  Brazilian.  "The  Englishman 
spies  his  lion  first!" 

"Where  did  you  find  him?"  asked  Matthews, 
going  behind  the  table  for  a  better  look.  "They're 
getting  few  and  far  between  around  here,  they  say." 

"Oh,  they  still  turn  up,"  answered  the  Brazilian, 
it  seemed  to  Matthews  not  too  definitely.  Before  he 
could  pursue  the  question  farther,  Magin  clapped  his 
hands.  Instantly  there  appeared  at  the  outer  door 
a  barefooted  Lur,  whose  extraordinary  cap  looked  to 
Matthews  even  taller  and  more  pontifical  than  those 
of  his  fellow-countrymen  at  the  oars.  The  Lur,  his 
hands  crossed  on  his  girdle,  received  a  rapid  order 
and  vanished  as  silently  as  he  came. 

"I  wish  I  knew  the  lingo  like  that!"  commented 
Matthews. 

Magin  waved  a  deprecatory  hand. 

"One  picks  it  up  soon  enough.    Besides,  what's 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM  311 

the  use — with  a  man  like  yours?  Who  is  he,  by  the 
way?  He  doesn't  look  English." 

"Who?  Gaston?  He  isn't.  He's  French.  And 
he  doesn't  know  too  much  of  the  lingo.  But  the 
blighter  could  get  on  anywhere.  He's  lived  all  over 
the  place — Algiers,  Egypt,  Baghdad.  He's  been 
chauffeur  to  more  nabobs  in  turbans  than  you  can 
count.  He's  a  topping  mechanic,  too.  The  wheel 
hasn't  been  invented  that  beggar  can't  make  go 
'round.  The  only  trouble  he  has  is  with  his  own. 
He  keeps  time  for  a  year  or  two,  and  then  something 
happens  to  his  mainspring  and  he  gets  the  sack.  But 
he  never  seems  to  go  home.  He  always  moves  on  to 
some  place  where  it's  hotter  and  dirtier.  You  should 
hear  his  stories!  He's  an  amusing  devil." 

"And  perhaps  not  so  different  from  the  rest  of  us!" 
threw  out  Magin.  "What  flea  bites  us?  Why  do 
you  come  here,  courting  destruction  in  a  cockleshell 
that  may  any  minute  split  on  a  rock  and  spill  you  to 
the  sharks,  when  you  might  be  punting  some  pretty 
girl  up  the  backwaters  of  the  Thames?  Why  do  I 
float  around  in  this  old  ark  of  reeds  and  bulrushes, 
like  an  elderly  Moses  in  search  of  a  promised  land, 
who  should  be  at  home  wearing  the  slippers  of  mid 
dle  age?  What  is  it?  A  sunstroke?  This  is  hardly 
the  country  where  Goethe's  citrons  bloom!" 

"Damned  if  I  know!"  laughed  Matthews.  "I 
fancy  we  like  a  bit  of  a  lark!" 

The  Brazilian  laughed  too. 

"A  bit  of  a  lark!"  he  echoed. 


312  THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

Just  then  the  silent  Lur  reappeared  with  a  tray. 

"I  say!"  protested  Matthews.  "Whiskey  and 
soda  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  in  the  middle  of 
July- 

"1914,  if  you  must  be  so  precise!"  added  Magin 
jovially.  "But  why  not?"  he  demanded.  "Aren't 
you  an  Englishman?  You  mustn't  shake  the  pious 
belief  in  which  I  was  brought  up,  that  you  are  all 
weaned  with  Scotch!  Say  when.  It  isn't  every  day 
that  I  have  the  pleasure  of  so  fortunate  an  encoun 
ter."  And,  rising,  he  lifted  his  glass,  bowed,  and 
said:  "Here's  to  a  bit  of  a  lark,  Mr.  Matthews!" 

The  younger  man  rose  to  it.  But  inwardly  he  be 
gan  to  feel  a  little  irked.  \ 

"By  the  way,"  he  asked,  nibbling  at  a  biscuit, 
"can  you  tell  me  anything  about  the  Ab-i-Diz?  I 
dare  say  you  must  know  something  about  it — since 
your  men  look  as  if  they  came  from  up  that  way.  Is 
there  a  decent  channel  as  far  as  Dizful?  " 

"Ah!"  uttered  Magin  slowly.  "Are  you  thinking 
of  going  up  there?  "  He  considered  the  question,  and 
his  guest,  with  a  flicker  in  his  lighted  eyes.  "Well, 
decent  is  a  relative  word,  you  know.  However, 
wonders  can  be  accomplished  with  a  stout  rope  and 
a  gang  of  natives,  even  beyond  Dizful.  But  here  you 
see  me  and  my  ark  still  whole — after  a  night  journey, 
too.  The  worst  thing  is  the  sun.  You  see  I  am  more 
careful  of  my  skin  than  you.  As  for  the  shoals,  the 
rapids,  the  sharks,  the  lions,  the  nomads  who  pop  at 
you  from  the  bank,  et  cetera — you  are  an  Englishman! 


THE   EMPEROR  OF  ELAM  313 

Do  you  take  an  interest  in  antiques?"  he  broke  off 
abruptly. 

"Yes — though  interest  is  a  relative  word  too,  I  ex 
pect." 

"  Quite  so ! "  agreed  the  Brazilian.  "  I  have  rather 
a  mania  for  that  sort  of  thing,  myself.  Wait.  Let 
me  show  you."  And  he  went  into  the  inner  cabin. 
When  he  came  back  he  held  up  an  alabaster  cup.  "A 
Greek  kylix!"  he  cried.  "Pure  Greek!  What  an 
outline,  eh?  This  is  what  keeps  me  from  putting  on 
my  slippers!  I  have  no  doubt  Alexander  left  it  be 
hind  him.  Perhaps  Hephaistion  drank  out  of  it,  or 
Nearchus,  to  celebrate  his  return  from  India.  And 
some  rascally  Persian  stole  it  out  of  a  tent!" 

Matthews,  taking  the  cup,  saw  the  flicker  brighten 
in  the  Brazilian's  eyes. 

"Nice  little  pattern  of  grape  leaves,  that,"  he  said. 
"And  think  of  picking  it  up  out  here!" 

"Oh  you  can  always  pick  things  up,  if  you  know 
where  to  look,"  said  Magin.  "Dieulafoy  and  the 
rest  of  them  didn't  take  everything.  How  could  they? 
The  people  who.  have  come  and  gone  through  this 
country  of  Elam!  Why  just  over  there,  at  Bund-i- 
Kir,  Antigonus  fought  Eumenes  and  the  Silver 
Shields  for  the  spoils  of  Susa — and  won  them!  I 

have  discovered But  come  in  here."  And  he 

pushed  wider  open  the  door  of  the  inner  cabin. 

Matthews  stepped  into  what  was  evidently  a  state 
room.  A  broad  bunk  filled  one  side  of  it,  and  the 
visitor  could  not  help  remarking  a  second  interior 


314  THE   EMPEROR   OF  ELAM 

door.  But  his  eye  was  chiefly  struck  by  two,  three, 
no  four,  chests,  which  took  up  more  space  in  the  nar 
row  cabin  than  could  be  convenient  for  its  occupant. 
They  seemed  to  be  made  of  the  same  mysterious 
dark  wood  as  the  "ark,"  clamped  with  copper. 

' '  I  say !  Those  aren ' t  bad ! "  he  exclaimed .  ' '  More 
of  the  spoils  of  Susa?" 

"Ho !  My  trunks?  I  had  them  made  up  the  river, 
like  the  rest.  But  I  wonder  what  would  interest  you 
in  my  museum.  Let's  see."  He  bent  over  one  of  the 
chests,  unlocked  it,  rummaged  under  the  cover,  and 
brought  out  a  broad  metal  circlet  which  he  handed 
to  Matthews.  "How  would  that  do  for  a  crown, 
eh?" 

The  young  man  took  it  over  to  the  porthole.  The 
metal,  he  then  saw,  was  a  soft  antique  gold,  wrought 
into  a  decoration  of  delicate  spindles,  with  a  border 
of  filigree.  The  circlet  was  beautiful  in  itself,  and 
astonishingly  heavy.  But  what  it  chiefly  did  for 
Matthews  was  to  sharpen  the  sense  of  strangeness, 
of  remoteness,  which  this  bizarre  galley,  come  from 
unknown  waters,  had  brought  into  the  familiar  mud 
dy  Karun. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,"  went  on  the  Brazilian,  "it's 
an  anklet.  But  can  you  make  it  out?  Those  spindles 
are  Persian,  while  the  filigree  is  more  Byzantine  than 
anything  else.  You  find  funny  things  up  there,  in 
caves " 

He  tossed  a  vague  hand,  into  which  Matthews  put 
the  anklet,  saying: 


THE   EMPEROR  OF  ELAM  315 

"Take  it  before  I  steal  it!" 

"Keep  it,  won't  you?"  proposed  the  astonishing 
Brazilian. 

"Oh,  thanks.  But  I  could  hardly  do  that,"  Mat 
thews  replied. 

"Why  not?"  protested  Magin.  "As  a  souvenir  of 
a  pleasant  meeting!  I  have  a  ton  of  them."  He 
waved  his  hand  at  the  chests. 

"No,  really,  thanks,"  persisted  the  young  man. 
"And  I'm  afraid  we  must  be  getting  on.  I  don't 
know  the  river,  you  see,  and  I'd  like  to  reach  Dizful 
before  dark." 

The  Brazilian  studied  him  a  moment. 

"As  you  say,"  he  finally  conceded.  "  But  you  will 
at  least  have  another  drink  before  you  go?  " 

"No,  not  even  that,  thanks,"  said  Matthews. 
"We  really  must  be  off.  But  it's  been  very  decent 
of  you."  « 

He  felt  both  awkward  and  amused  as  he  backed 
out  to  the  deck,  followed  by  his  imposing  host.  At 
sight  of  the  two  the  crew  scattered  to  their  oars. 
They  had  been  leaning  over  the  side,  absorbed  in 
admiration  of  the  white  jinn-boat.  Matthews's  Per 
sian  servant  handed  up  to  Magin's  butler  a  tray  of 
tea  glasses — on  which  Matthews  also  noted  a  bottle. 
In  honour  of  that  bottle  Gaston  himself  stood  up  and 
took  off  his  greasy  cap. 

"A  thousand  thanks,  Monsieur,"  he  said.  "I 
have  tasted  nothing  so  good  since  I  left  France." 

"In  that  case,  my  friend,"  rejoined  Magin  in 


316  THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

French  as  good  as  his  English,  "it  is  time  you  re 
turned!"  And  he  abounded  in  amiable  speeches 
and  ceremonious  bows  until  the  last  au  revoir. 

"Au  plaisir! "  called  back  Gaston,  having  invoked 
his  jinni.  Then,  after  a  last  look  at  the  barge,  he 
asked  over  his  shoulder  in  a  low  voice:  "Who  is 
this  extraordinary  type,  M'sieu  Guy?  A  species  of 
an  Arab,  who  speaks  French  and  English  and  who 
voyages  in  a  galley  from  a  museum!" 

"A  Brazilian,  he  says,"  imparted  M'sieu  Guy — 
whose  surname  was  beyond  Gaston 's  Gallic  tongue. 

"Ah!  The  uncle  of  America!  That  understands 
itself!  He  sent  me  out  a  cognac,  too!  And  did  he 
present  you  to  his  dame  de  compagnie?  She  put  her 
head  out  of  a  porthole  to  look  at  our  boat.  A  Lur, 
like  the  others,  but  with  a  pair  of  blistering  black 
eyes!  And  a  jewel  in  her  nose!" 

"It  takes  you,  Gaston,"  said  Guy  Matthews,  "to 
discover  a  dame  of  company!" 

II 

When  the  white  motor-boat  had  disappeared  in 
the  glitter  of  the  Ab-i-Diz,  Senhor  Magin,  not  unlike 
other  fallible  human  beings  when  released  from  the 
necessity  of  keeping  up  a  pitch,  appeared  to  lose 
something  of  his  gracious  humour.  So,  it  transpired, 
did  his  decorative  boatmen,  who  had  not  expected  to 
row  twenty-five  miles  upstream  at  a  time  when  most 
people  in  that  climate  seek  the  relief  of  their  serdabs 
— which  are  underground  chambers  cooled  by  run- 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM  317 

ning  water,  it  may  be,  and  by  a  tall  badgir,  or  air 
chimney.  The  running  water,  to  be  sure,  was  here, 
and  had  already  begun  to  carry  the  barge  down  the 
Karun.  If  the  high  banks  of  that  tawny  stream  con 
stituted  a  species  of  air  chimney,  however,  such  air 
as  moved  therein  was  not  calculated  for  relief.  But 
when  Brazilians  command,  even  a  Lur  may  obey. 
These  Lurs,  at  all  events,  propelled  their  galley  back 
to  the  basin  of  Bund-i-Kir,  and  on  into  the  Ab-i- 
Shuteit — which  is  the  westerly  of  those  two  halves 
of  the  Karun.  Before  nightfall  the  barge  had  reached 
the  point  where  navigation  ends.  There  Magin  sent 
his  majordomo  ashore  to  procure  mounts.  And  at 
sunset  the  two  of  them,  followed  by  a  horse-boy,  rode 
northward  six  or  seven  miles,  till  the  city  of  Shustar 
rose  dark  above  them  in  the  summer  evening,  on  its 
rock  that  cleaves  the  Karun  in  two. 

The  Bazaar  by  which  they  entered  the  town  was 
deserted  at  that  hour,  save  by  dogs  that  set  up  a  ter 
rific  barking  at  the  sight  of  strangers.  Here  the 
charvadar  lighted  a  vast  white  linen  lantern,  which  he 
proceeded  to  carry  in  front  of  the  two  riders.  He 
seemed  to  know  where  he  was  going,  for  he  led  the 
way  without  a  pause  through  long  blank  silent  streets 
of  indescribable  filth  and  smells.  The  gloom  of  them 
was  deepened  by  jutting  balconies,  and  by  innumer 
able  badgirs  that  cut  out  a  strange  black  fretwork 
against  amazing  stars.  At  last  the  three  stopped  in 
front  of  a  gate  in  the  vicinity  of  the  citadel.  This 
was  not  one  of  the  gateways  that  separate  the  differ- 


318  THE   EMPEROR   OF  ELAM 

ent  quarters  of  Shustar,  but  a  door  in  a  wall,  re 
cessed  in  a  tall  arch  and  ornamented  with  an  extraor 
dinary  variety  of  iron  clamps,  knobs,  locks,  and 
knockers. 

Of  one  of  the  latter  the  charvadar  made  repeated 
use,  until  someone  shouted  from  inside.  The  horse 
boy  shouted  back,  and  presently  his  lantern  caught 
a  glitter  of  two  eyes  in  a  slit.  The  eyes  belonged  to 
a  cautious  doorkeeper,  who  after  satisfying  himself 
that  the  visitors  were  not  enemies  admitted  the 
Brazilian  and  the  Lur  into  a  vaulted  brick  vestibule. 
Then,  having  looked  to  his  wards  and  bolts,  he 
lighted  Magin  through  a  corridor  which  turned  into 
a  low  tunnel-like  passage.  This  led  into  a  sort  of 
cloister,  where  a  covered  ambulatory  surrounded  a 
dark  pool  of  stars.  Thence  another  passage  brought 
them  out  into  a  great  open  court.  Here  an  invisible 
jet  of  water  made  an  illusion  of  coolness  in  another, 
larger,  pool,  overlooked  by  a  portico  of  tall  slim  pil 
lars.  Between  them  Magin  caught  the  glow  of  a 
cigar. 

"Good  evening,  Ganz,"  his  bass  voice  called  from 
the  court. 

"Heaven!  Is  that  you?"  replied  the  smoker  of 
the  cigar.  "What  are  you  doing  here,  in  God's 
name?  I  imagined  you  at  Mohamera,  by  this  time, 
or  even  in  the  Gulf."  This  remark,  it  may  not  be 
irrelevant  to  say,  was  in  German — as  spoken  in  the 
trim  town  of  Zurich. 

"And  so  I  should  have  been,"  replied  the  polyglot 


THE   EMPEROR   OF  ELAM  319 

Magin  in  the  same  language,  mounting  the  steps  of 
the  portico  and  shaking  his  friend's  hand,  "but  for— 
all  sorts  of  things.  If  we  ran  aground  once,  we  ran 
aground  three  thousand  times.  I  begin  to  wonder 
if  we  shall  get  through  the  reefs  at  Ahwaz — with  all 
the  rubbish  I  have  on  board." 

"Ah,  bah!  You  can  manage,  going  down.  But 
why  do  you  waste  your  time  in  Shustar,  with  all  that 
is  going  on  in  Europe?  " 

"H'm!"  grunted  Magin.  "What  is  going  on  in 
Europe?  A  great  family  is  wearing  well  cut  mourn 
ing,  and  a  small  family  is  beginning  to  turn  green! 
How  does  that  affect  two  quiet  nomads  in  Elam— 
especially  when  one  of  them  is  a  Swiss  and  one  a 
Brazilian?"  He  laughed,  and  lighted  a  cigar  the 
other  offered  him.  "My  dear  Ganz,  it  is  an  enigma 
to  me  how  a  man  who  can  listen  to  such  a  fountain, 
and  admire  such  stars,  can  perpetually  sigh  after  the 
absurdities  of  Europe!  Which  reminds  me  that  I 
met  an  Englishman  this  morning." 

"Well,  what  of  that?    Are  Englishmen  so  rare?" 

"Alas,  no — though  I  notice,  my  good  Ganz,  that 
you  do  your  best  to  thin  them  out!  This  specimen 
was  too  typical  for  me  to  be  able  to  describe  him. 
Younger  than  usual,  possibly;  yellow  hair,  blue  eyes, 
constrained  manner,  everything  to  sample.  He  called 
himself  Mark,  or  Matthew.  Rather  their  apostolic 
air,  too — except  that  he  was  in  the  Oil  Company's 
motor-boat.  But  he  gave  me  to  understand  that  he 
was  not  in  the  Oil  Company." 


320  THE   EMPEROR   OF  ELAM 

"  Quite  so." 

"I  saw  for  myself  that  he  knows  nothing  about 
archaeology.  Who  is  he?  Lynch?  Bank?  Telegraph?" 

"  He's  not  Lynch,  and  he's  not  Bank,  and  he's  not 
Telegraph.  Neither  is  he  consul,  or  even  that  famous 
railroad.  He's — English!"  And  Ganz  let  out  a 
chuckle  at  the  success  of  his  own  characterisation. 

"Ah!  So?"  exclaimed  Magin  elaborately.  "I 
hear,  by  the  way,  that  that  famous  railroad  is  not 
marching  so  fast.  The  Lurs  don't  like  it.  But  some 
times  even  Englishmen,"  he  added,  "have  reasons 
for  doing  what  they  do.  This  one,  at  any  rate, 
seemed  more  inclined  to  ask  questions  than  to  an 
swer  them.  I  confess  I  don't  know  whether  it  was 
because  he  had  nothing  to  say  or  whether  he  preferred 
not  to  say  it.  Is  he  perhaps  a  Son  of  Papa,  making 
the  grand  tour?" 

"More  or  less.  Papa  gave  him  no  great  letter  of 
credit,  though.  He  came  out  to  visit  some  of  the  Oil 
people.  And  he's  been  here  long  enough  to  learn 
quite  a  lot  of  Persian." 

"So  he  starts  this  morning,  I  take  it,  from  Shelei- 
lieh.  But  why  the  devil  does  he  go  to  Dizful,  by 
himself?" 

"And  why  the  devil  shouldn't  he?  He's  out  here, 
and  he  wants  to  see  the  sights — such  as  they  are.  So 
he's  going  to  take  a  look  at  the  ruins  of  Susa,  and  at 
your  wonderful  unspoiled  Dizful.  Shir  Ali  Khan 
will  be  delighted  to  get  a  few  tomans  for  his  empty 
house  by  the  river.  Then  the  21st,  you  know,  is  the 


THE   EMPEROR   OF   ELAM  321 

coronation.  So  I  gave  him  a  letter  to  the  Father  of 
Swords,  who— 

"Thunder  and  lightning!"  Magin's  heavy  voice 
resounded  in  the  portico  very  like  a  bellow.  "You, 
Ganz,  sent  this  man  to  the  Father  of  Swords?  He 
might  be  one  of  those  lieutenants  from  India  who  go 
smelling  around  in  their  holidays,  so  pink  and  in 
nocent!" 

"What  is  that  to  me?"  demanded  the  Swiss, 
raising  his  own  voice.  "Or  to  you  either?  After  all, 
Senhor  Magin,  are  you  the  Emperor  of  Elam?  " 

The  Brazilian  laughed. 

"Not  yet!  And  naturally  it's  nothing  to  you, 
when  you  cash  him  cheques  and  sell  him  tinned  cows 
and  quinine.  But  for  a  man  who  perpetually  sighs 
after  Europe,  Herr  Ganz,  and  for  a  Swiss  of  the  North, 
you  strike  me  as  betraying  a  singular  lack  of  sensibil 
ity  to  certain  larger  interests  of  your  race.  How 
ever —  What  concerns  me  is  that  you  should  have 
confided  to  this  young  man,  with  such  a  roll  of  sen 
timental  eyes  as  I  can  imagine,  that  Dizful  is  still 
'unspoiled' !  If  Dizful  is  unspoiled,  he  might  spoil  it. 
I've  found  some  very  nice  things  up  there,  you  know. 
I  was  even  fool  enough  to  show  him  one  or  two." 

"Bah!  He  likes  to  play  tennis  and  shoot!  You 
know  these  English  boys." 

Magin  considered  those  English  boys  in  silence  for 
a  moment. 

"Yes,  I  know  them.  This  one  told  me  he  liked  a 
bit  of  a  lark!  I  know  myself  what  a  lark  it  is  to  navi- 


322  THE   EMPEROR   OF   ELAM 

gate  the  Ab-i-Diz,  at  the  end  of  July!  But  what  is 
most  curious  about  these  English  boys  is  that  when 
they  go  out  for  a  bit  of  a  lark  they  come  home  with 
Egypt  or  India  in  their  pocket.  Have  you  noticed 
that,  Ganz?  That's  their  idea  of  a  bit  of  a  lark. 
And  with  it  all  they  are  still  children.  What  can  one 
do  with  such  people?  A  bit  of  a  lark!  Well,  you  will 
perhaps  make  me  a  little  annoyance,  Mr.  Adolf  Ganz, 
by  sending  your  English  boy  up  to  Dizful  to  have  a 
bit  of  a  lark.  However,  he'll  either  give  himself  a 
sunstroke  or  get  himself  bitten  in  two  by  a  shark. 
He  asked  me  about  the  channel,  and  I  had  an  in 
spiration.  I  told  him  he  would  have  no  trouble.  So 
he'll  go  full  speed  and  we  shall  see  what  we  shall  see. 
Do  you  sell  coffins,  Mr.  Ganz,  in  addition  to  all  your 
other  valuable  merchandise?" 

"Naturally,  Mr.  Magin,"  replied  the  Swiss.  "Do 
you  need  one?  But  you  haven't  explained  to  me  yet 
why  you  give  me  the  pain  of  saying  good-bye  to  you 
a  second  time." 

"Partly,  Mr.  Ganz,  because  I  am  tired  of  sleeping 
in  an  oven,  and  partly  because  I — the  Father  of 
Swords  has  asked  me  to  run  up  to  Bala  Bala  before 
I  leave.  But  principally  because  I  need  a  case  or 
two  more  of  your  excellent  vin  de  champagne — manu 
factured  out  of  Persian  petroleum,  the  water  of  the 
Karun,  the  nameless  abominations  of  Shustar,  and 
the  ever  effervescing  impudence  of  the  Swiss  Re 
public!" 

"What  can  I  do?"  smiled  the  flattered  author  of 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM  323 

this  concoction.    "I  have  to  use  what  I  can  get,  in 
this  God-forsaken  place." 

"And  I  suppose  you  will  end  by  getting  a  million, 
eh?" 

"No  such  luck!  But  I'm  getting  a  piano.  Did  I 
tell  you?  A  Bllithner.  It's  already  on  the  way  up 
from  Mohamera." 

"A.Bliithner!  In  Shustar!  God  in  heaven!  Why 
did  you  wait  until  I  had  gone?" 

"  Well,  aren't  you  still  here?  "  The  fact  of  Magin's 
being  still  there,  so  unexpectedly,  hung  in  his  mind. 
"  By  the  way,  speaking  of  the  Father  of  Swords,  did 
you  give  him  an  order?  " 

"I  gave  him  an  order.    Didn't  you  pay  it?" 

"I  thought  twice  about  it.  For  unless  you  have 
struck  oil,  up  in  that  country  of  yours  where  nobody 
goes,  or  gold— 

"Mr.  Adolf  Ganz,"  remarked  the  Brazilian  with 
some  pointedness,  "all  I  ask  of  you  is  to  respect  my 
signature  and  to  keep  closed  that  many-tongued 
mouth  of  yours.  I  sometimes  fear  that  in  you  the 
banker  is  inclined  to  exchange  confidences  with  the 
chemist — or  even  with  the  Son  of  Papa  who  cashes 
a  cheque.  Eh?" 

Ganz  cleared  his  throat. 

"In  that  case,"  he  rejoined,  "all  you  have  to  do  is 
to  ask  him,  when  you  meet  him  again  at  Bala  Bala. 
And  the  English  bank  will  no  doubt  be  happy  to  ac 
cept  the  transfer  of  your  account." 

Magin  began  to  chuckle. 


324  THE   EMPEROR   OF  ELAM 

"We  assert  our  dignity?  Never  mind,  Adolf.  As 
a  matter  of  fact  I  have  a  high  opinion  of  your  discre 
tion — so  high  that  when  I  found  the  Imperial  Bank 
of  Elam  I  shall  put  you  in  charge  of  it!  And  you  did 
me  a  real  service  by  sending  that  motor-boat  across 
my  bow  this  morning.  For  in  it  I  discovered  just  the 
chauffeur  I  have  been  looking  for.  I  am  getting  tired 
of  my  galley,  you  know.  You  will  see  something 
when  I  come  back." 

"But,"  Ganz  asked  after  a  moment,  "do  you 
really  expect  to  come  back?" 

"  But  what  else  should  I  do?  End  my  days  sneez 
ing  and  sniffling  by  some  polite  lake  of  Zurich  like 
you,  my  poor  Ganz,  when  you  find  in  your  hand  the 
magic  key  that  might  unlock  for  you  any  door  in  the 
world?  That,  for  example,  is  not  my  idea  of  a  lark, 
as  your  Son  of  Papa  would  say!  Men  are  astounding 
animals,  I  admit.  But  I  never  could  live  in  Europe, 
where  you  can't  turn  around  without  stepping  on 
someone  else's  toes.  I  want  room!  I  want  air!  I 
want  light!  And  for  a  collector,  you  know,  Amer 
ica  is  after  all  a  little  bare.  While  here !" 

"0  God!"  cried  Adolf  Ganz  out  of  his  dark  Persian 
portico. 

Ill 

As  Gaston  very  truly  observed,  there  are  moments 
in  Persia  when  even  the  most  experienced  chauffeur 
is  capable  of  an  emotion.  And  an  unusual  number 
of  such  moments  enlivened  for  Gaston  and  his  com- 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM  325 

panions  their  journey  up  the  Ab-i-Diz.  Indeed 
Matthews  asked  himself  more  than  once  why  he  had 
chosen  so  doubtful  a  road-  to  Dizful,  when  he  might 
so  much  more  easily  have  ridden  there,  and  at  night. 
It  certainly  was  not  beautiful,  that  river  of  brass 
zigzagging  out  of  sight  of  its  empty  hinterland.  Very 
seldom  did  anything  so  visible  as  a  palm  lift  itself 
against  the  blinding  Persian  blue.  Konar  trees  were 
commoner,  their  dense  round  masses  sometimes  shad 
ing  a  white-washed  tomb  or  a  black  tent.  Once  or 
twice  at  sight  of  the  motor-boat  a  bellam,  a  native 
canoe,  took  refuge  in  the  mouth  of  one  of  the  gullies 
that  scarred  the  bank  like  sun-cracks.  Generally, 
however,  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  between  the 
water  and  the  sky  but  two  yellow  walls  of  clay, 
topped  by  endless  thickets  of  tamarisk  and  nameless 
scrub.  Matthews  wondered,  disappointed,  whether 
a  jungle  looked  like  that,  and  if  some  black-maned 
lion  walked  more  softly  in  it,  or  slept  less  soundly, 
hearing  the  pant  of  the  unknown  creature  in  the 
river.  But  there  was  no  lack  of  more  immediate 
lions  in  the  path.  The  sun,  for  one  thing,  as  the 
Brazilian  had  predicted,  proved  a  torment  against 
which  double  awnings  faced  with  green  were  of  small 
avail.  Then  the  treacheries  of  a  crooked  and  con 
stantly  shallowing  channel  needed  all  the  attention 
the  travellers  could  spare.  And  the  rapids  of  Kaleh 
Bunder,  where  a  rocky  island  flanked  by  two  reefs 
threatened  to  bar  any  further  progress,  afforded  the 
liveliest  moments  of  their  day. 


326  THE   EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

The  end  of  that  day,  nevertheless,  found  our  sight 
seer  smoking  cigarettes  in  Shir  AH  Khan's  garden  at 
Dizful  and  listening  to  the  camel  bells  that  jingled 
from  the  direction  of  certain  tall  black  pointed  arches 
straddling  the  dark  river.  When  Matthews  looked 
at  those  arches  by  sunlight,  and  at  the  queer  old  flat- 
topped  yellow  town  visible  through  them,  he  regret 
ted  that  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  continue  his 
journey  so  soon.  However,  he  was  coming  back.  So 
he  packed  off  Gaston  and  the  Bakhtiari  to  Shelei- 
lieh,  where  they  and  their  motor-boat  belonged. 
And  he  himself,  with  his  servant  Abbas  and  the  char- 
vadar  of  whom  they  hired  horses,  set  out  at  nightfall 
for  the  mountain  citadel  of  Bala  Bala.  For  there 
the  great  Salman  Taki  Khan,  chieftain  of  the  lower 
Lurs,  otherwise  known  as  the  Father  of  Swords,  was 
to  celebrate  as  became  a  redoubtable  vassal  of  a  re 
mote  and  youthful  suzerain  the  coronation  of  Ahmed 
Shah  Kajar.  • 

It  was  nearly  morning  again  when,  after  a  last 
scramble  up  a  trough  of  rocks  and  gravel  too  steep 
for  riding,  the  small  cavalcade  reached  a  plateau  in 
the  shadow  of  still  loftier  elevations.  Here  they 
were  greeted  by  a  furious  barking  of  dogs.  Indeed  it 
quickly  became  necessary  to  organise  a  defence  of 
whips  and  stones  against  the  guardians  of  that 
high  terrace.  The  uproar  soon  brought  a  shout  out 
of  the  darkness.  The  charvadar  shouted  back,  and 
after  a  long-distance  colloquy  there  appeared  a  figure 
crowned  by  the  tall  kola  of  the  Brazilian's  boatmen, 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM  327 

who  drove  the  dogs  away.  The  dialect  in  which  he 
spoke  proved  incomprehensible  *to  Matthews.  Luck 
ily  it  was  not  altogether  so  to  Abbas,  that  under 
ling  long  resigned  to  the  eccentricities  of  the  Firengi, 
whose  accomplishments  included  even  a  sketchy 
knowledge  of  his  master's  tongue.  It  appeared  that 
the  law  of  Bala  Bala  forbade  the  door  of  the  Father 
of  Swords  to  open  before  sunrise.  But  the  tall-hatted 
one  offered  the  visitor  the  provisional  hospitality  of 
a  black  tent,  of  a  refreshing  drink  of  goats'  butter 
milk,  and  of  a  comfortable  felt  whereon  to  stretch 
cramped  legs. 

When  Matthews  returned  to  consciousness  he  first 
became  aware  of  a  blinding  oblong  of  light  in  the  dark 
wall  of  the  tent.  He  then  made  out  a  circle  of  pon 
tifical  black  hats,  staring  at  him,  his  fair  hair,  and 
his  indecently  close-fitting  clothes,  in  the  silence  of 
unutterable  curiosity.  It  made  him  think,  for  a  be 
wildered  instant,  that  he  was  back  on  the  barge  he 
had  met  in  the  river.  As  for  the  black  hats,  what 
astonished  them  not  least  was  the  stranger's  immedi 
ate  demand  for  water,  and  his  evident  dissatisfaction 
with  the  quantity  of  it  they  brought  him.  There 
happily  proved  to  be  no  lack  of  this  commodity,  as 
Matthews'  ears  had  told  him.  He  was  not  long  in 
pursuing  the  sound  into  the  open,  where  he  found 
himself  at  the  edge  of  a  village  of  black  tents,  pitched 
in  a  grassy  hollow  between  two  heights.  The  nearer 
and  lower  was  a  detached  cone  of  rock,  crowned  by 
a  rude  castle.  The  other  peak,  not  quite  so  precipi- 


328  THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

tous,  afforded  foothold  for  scattered  scrub  oaks  and 
for  a  host  of  slowly  moving  sheep  and  goats.  Be 
tween  them  the  plateau  looked  down  on  two  sides 
into  two  converging  valleys.  And  the  clear  air  was 
full  of  the  noise  of  a  brook  that  cascaded  between  the 
scrub  oaks  of  the  higher  mountain,  raced  past  the 
tents,  and  plunged  out  of  sight  in  the  narrower 
gorge. 

"Ripping!"  pronounced  Matthews  genially  to  his 
black-hatted  gallery. 

He  was  less  genial  about  the  persistence  of  the  gal 
lery,  rapidly  increased  by  recruits  from  the  black 
tents,  in  dogging  him  through  every  detail  of  his 
toilet.  But  he  was  rescued  at  last  by  Abbas  and  an 
old  Lur  who,  putting  his  two  hands  to  the  edge  of  his 
black  cap,  saluted  him  in  the  name  of  the  Father  of 
Swords.  The  Lur  then  led  the  way  to  a  trail  that 
zigzagged  up  the  lower  part  of  the  rocky  cone.  He 
explained  the  quantity  of  loose  boulders  obstructing 
the  path  by  saying  that  they  had  been  left  there  to 
roll  down  on  whomever  should  visit  the  Father  of 
Swords  without  an  invitation.  That  such  an  enter 
prise  would  not  be  too  simple  became  more  evident 
when  the  path  turned  into  a  cave.  Here  another  Lur 
was  waiting  with  candles.  He  gave  one  each  to  the 
newcomers,  leading  the  way  to  a  low  door  in  the  rock. 
This  was  opened  by  an  individual  in  a  iong  red  coat 
of  ceremony,  carrying  a  heavy  silver  mace,  who  gave 
Matthews  the  customary  salutation  of  peace  and 
bowed  him  into  an  irregular  court.  An  infinity  of 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM  329 

doors  opened  out  of  it — chiefly  of  the  stables,  the  old 
man  said,  pointing  out  a  big  white  mule  or  two  of  the 
famous  breed  of  Bala  Bala.  Thence  the  visitor  was 
led  up  a  steep  stone  stair  to  a  terrace  giving  entrance 
upon  a  corridor  and  another,  narrower,  stone  stair. 
From  its  prodigiously  high  steps  he  emerged  into  a 
hall,  carpeted  with  felt.  At  this  point,  the  Lurs  took 
off  their  shoes.  Matthews  followed  suit,  being  then 
ushered  into  what  was  evidently  a  room  of  state.  It 
contained  no  furniture,  to  be  sure,  save  for  the  hand 
some  rugs  on  the  floor.  The  room  did  not  look  bare, 
however,  for  its  lines  were  broken  by  a  deep  alcove, 
and  by  a  continuous  succession  of  niches.  Between 
and  about  the  niches  the  walls  were  decorated  with 
plaster  reliefs  of  flowers  and  arabesques.  Matthews 
wondered  if  the  black  hats  were  capable  of  that!  But 
what  chiefly  caught  his  eye  was  the  terrace  opening 
out  of  the  room,  and  the  stupendous  view. 

The  terrace  hung  over  a  green  chasm  where  the 
two  converging  gorges  met  at  the  foot  of  the  crag  of 
Bala  Bala.  Matthews  looked  down  as  from  the  prow 
of  a  ship  into  the  tumbled  country  below  him, 
through  which  a  river  flashed  sinuously  toward  the 
faraway  haze  of  the  plains.  The  sound  of  water 
filling  the  still  clear  air,  the  brilliance  of  the  morning 
light,  the  wildness  and  remoteness  of  that  mountain 
eyrie,  so  different  from  anything  he  had  yet  seen, 
added  a  last  strangeness  to  the  impressions  of  which 
the  young  man  had  been  having  so  many. 

"What  a  pity  to  spoil  it  with  a  railroad!"  he  could 


330  THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

not  help  thinking,  as  he  leaned  over  the  parapet  of 
the  terrace. 

"Sahib!"  suddenly  whispered  Abbas  behind  him. 

Matthews  turned,  and  saw  in  the  doorway  of  the 
terrace  a  personage  who  could  be  none  other  than  his 
host.  In  place  of  the  kola  of  his  people  this  personage 
wore  a  great  white  turban,  touched  with  gold.  The 
loose  blue  aba  enveloping  his  ample  figure  was  also 
embroidered  with  gold.  Not  the  least  striking  detail 
of  his  appearance,  however,  was  his  beard,  which  had 
a  pronounced  tendency  toward  scarlet.  His  nails 
were  likewise  reddened  with  henna,  reminding  Mat 
thews  that  the  hands  bf  •••^iging  to  the  nails  were 
rumoured  to  bear  even  me  £  sinister  stains.  And  the 
bottomless  black  eyes  peering  out  from  under  the 
white  turban  lent  surprising  credibility  to  such  ru 
mours.  But  there  was  no  lack  of  graciousness  in  the 
gestures  with  which  those  famous  hands  saluted  the 
visitor  and  pointed  him  to  a  seat  of  honour  on  the 
rug  beside  the  Father  of  Swords.  The  Father  of 
Swords  furthermore  pronounced  his  heart  uplifted 
to  receive  a  frien<f  of  Ganz  Sahib,  that  prince  among 
the  merchants  0f  Shustar.  Yet  he  did  not  hesitate 
to  express  a  certain  surprise  at  discovering  in  the 
friend  of  the  prince  among  the  merchants  of  Shustar 
one  still  in  the  flower  of  youth,  who  exhibited  at  the 
same  time  the  features  of  good  fortune  and  the  linea 
ments  of  prudence.  And  he  inquired  as  to  what  sor 
row  had  led  one  so  young  to  fold  the  carpet  of  enjoy 
ment  and  to  wander  so  far  from  his  parents. 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM  331 

Matthews,  disdaining  the  promptings  of  Abbas  - 
who  stood  apart  like  a  statue  of  obsequiousness,  each 
hand  stuck  into  the  sleeve  of  the  other — responded 
as  best  he  might.  In  the  meantime  tea  and  candies 
were  served  by  a  black  hat  on  bended  knee,  who  also 
produced  a  pair  of  ornate  pipes.  The  Father  of 
Swords  marvelled  that  Matthews  should  have  aban 
doned  the  delights  of  Shustar  in  order  to  witness  his 
poor  celebrations  of  the  morrow,  in  honour  of  the 
coronation.  And  had  he  felt  no  fear  of  robbers,  dur 
ing  his  long  night  ride  from  Dizful?  But  what  rob 
bers  were  there  to  fear,  protested  Matthews,  in  the 
very  shadow  of  Bala  Ba7  9  At  that  the  Father  of 
Swords  began  to  make  bi  er  complaint  of  the  afflic 
tions  Allah  had  laid  upon  him,  taking  his  text  from 
these  lines  of  Sadi:  "If  thou  tellest  the  sorrows  of 
thy  heart,  let  it  be  to  him  in  whose  countenance  thou 
mayst  be  assured  of  prompt  consolation."  The 
world,  he  declared,  was  fallen  into  disorder,  like  the 
hair  of  an  Ethiopian.  Within  the  city  wall  was  a 
people  well  disposed  as  angels;  without,  a  band  of 
tigers.  After  which  he  asked  if  the  young  Firengi 
were  of  the  company  of  those  who  dug  for  the  poi 
soned  water  of  Bakhtiari  Land,  or  whether  perchance 
he  were  of  the  People  of  the  Chain. 

These  figures  of  speech  would  have  been  incom 
prehensible  to  Matthews,  if  Abbas  had  not  hinted 
something  about  oil  rigs.  He  accordingly  confessed 
that  he  had  nothing  to  do  with  either  of  the  two  en 
terprises.  The  Father  of  Swords  then  expatiated  on 


332  THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

those  who  caused  the  Lurs  to  seize  the  hand  of  amaze 
ment  with  the  teeth  of  chagrin,  by  dragging  through 
their  valleys  a  long  chain,  as  if  they  meant  to  take 
prisoners.  These  unwelcome  Firengis  were  also  to 
be  known  by  certain  strange  inventions  on  three 
legs,  into  which  they  would  gaze  by  the  hour.  Were 
they  warriors,  threatening  devastation?  Or  were 
they  magicians,  spying  into  the  future  and  laying 
a  spell  upon  the  people  of  Luristan?  Their  account 
of  themselves  the  Father  of  Swords  found  far  from 
satisfactory,  claiming  as  they  did  that  they  proposed 
to  build  a  road  of  iron,  whereby  it  would  be  possible 
for  a  man  to  go  from  Dizful  to  Khorremabad  in  one 
day.  For  the  rest,  what  business  had  the  people  of 
Dizful,  too  many  of  whom  were  Arabs,  in  Khorrem 
abad,  a  city  of  Lurs?  Let  the  men  of  Dizful  remain 
in  Dizful,  and  those  of  Khorremabad  continue  where 
they  were  born.  As  for  him,  his  white  mules  needed 
no  road  of  iron  to  carry  him  about  his  affairs. 

Matthews,  recalling  his  own  thoughts  as  he  leaned 
over  the  parapet  of  the  terrace,  spoke  consolingly  to 
the  Father  of  Swords  concerning  the  People  of  the 
Chain.  The  Father  of  Swords  listened  to  him,  draw 
ing  meditatively  at  his  waterpipe.  He  thereupon 
inquired  if  Matthews  were  acquainted  with  another 
friend  of  the  prince  among  the  merchants  of  Shustar, 
himself  a  Firengi  by  birth,  though  recently  persuaded 
of  the  truths  of  Islam;  and  not  like  this  visitor  of  good 
omen/ in  the  bloom  of  youth,  but  bearded  and  hard 
ened  in  battles,  bearing  the  scars  of  them  on  his  face. 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM  333 

Matthews  began  to  go  over  in  his  mind  the  short 
list  of  Europeans  he  had  met  on  the  Karun,  till  sud 
denly  he  bethought  him  of  that  extraordinary  barge 
he  had  encountered — could  it  be  only  a  couple  of 
days  ago? 

"Magin  Sahib?"  he  asked.  "I  know  him— if  he 
is  the  one  who  travels  in  the  river  in  a  mehala  not  like 
other  mehalas,  rowed  by  Lurs." 

" '  That  is  a  musk  which  discloses  itself  by  its  scent, 
and  not  what  the  perfumers  impose  upon  us/"  quot 
ed  the  Father  of  Swords.  "  This  man,"  he  continued, 
"our  friend  and  the  friend  of  our  friend,  warned  me 
that  they  of  the  chain  are  sons  of  oppression,  destined 
to  bring  misfortune  to  the  Lurs.  Surely  my  soul  is 
tightened,  not  knowing  whom  I  may  believe." 

"Rum  bounder!"  said  Matthews  to  himself,  as  his 
mind  went  back  to  the  already  mythic  barge,  and  its 
fantastic  oarsmen  from  these  very  mountains,  and 
its  antique-hunting,  history-citing  master  from  over 
sea,  who  quoted  the  Book  of  Genesis  and  who  carried 
mysterious  passengers  with  nose-jewels.  But  our 
not  too  articulate  young  man  was  less  prompt  about 
what  he  should  say  aloud.  He  began  to  find  more  in 
this  interview  than  he  had  expected.  He  was  tickled 
at  his  host's  flowery  forms  of  speech,  and  after  all 
rather  sympathised  with  the  suspicious  old  ruffian. 
Yet  it  was  not  for  him  to  fail  in  loyalty  toward  the 
"  People  of  the  Chain."  Several  of  them  he  knew,  as 
it  happened,  and  they  had  delighted  him  with  their 
wild  yarns  of  surveying  in  Luristan.  So  he  managed 


334  THE   EMPEROR   OF   ELAM 

no  more  than  to  achieve  an  appearance  of  slightly 
offended  dignity. 

Considering  which,  out  of  those  opaque  eyes,  the 
Father  of  Swords  clapped  those  famous  hands  and 
commanded  a  responsive  black  hat  to  bring  him  his 
green  chest.  At  that  Matthews  pricked  up  interested 
ears  indeed.  The  chest,  however,  when  set  down  in 
front  of  the  Father  of  Swords,  proved  to  be  nothing 
at  all  like  the  one  out  of  which  the  Brazilian  had 
taken  his  gold  anklet.  It  was  quite  small  and  painted 
green,  though  quaintly  enough  provided  with  triple 
locks  of  beaten  iron.  The  Father  of  Swords  unlocked 
them  deliberately,  withdrew  from  an  inner  compart 
ment  a  round  tin  case,  and  from  that  a  roll  of  parch 
ment  which  he  pressed  to  his  lips  with  infinite 
solemnity.  He  then  handed  it  to  Matthews. 

He  was  one,  our  not  too  articulate  young  man,  to 
take  things  as  they  came  and  not  to  require,  even 
east  of  Suez,  the  spice  of  romance  with  his  daily 
bread.  His  last  days,  moreover,  had  been  too  crowded 
for  him  to  ruminate  over  their  taste.  But  it  was  not 
every  day  that  he  squatted  on^jthe  same  rug  with  a 
scarlet-bearded  old  cut-throat  of  a  mountain  chief. 
So  it  was  that  his  more  or  less  casual  lark  visibly 
took  on,  from  the  perspective  of  this  castle  in  Luristan, 
as  he  unrolled  a  gaudy  emblazonment  of  eagles  at  the 
top  of  the  parchment,  a  new  and  curious  colour.  For 
below  the  eagle  he  came  upon  what  he  darkly  made 
out  to  be  a  species  of  treaty,  inscribed  neither  in  the 
Arabic  nor  in  the  Roman  but  in  the  Teutonic  char- 


THE   EMPEROR   OF  ELAM  335 

acter,  between  the  Father  of  Swords  and  a  more 
notorious  War  Lord.  And  below  that  was  signed, 
sealed,  and  imposingly  paraphed  the  signature  of  one 
Julius  Magin.  Which  was  indeed  a  novel  aspect  for 
a  Brazilian,  however  versatile,  to  reveal. 

He  permitted  himself,  did  Guy  Matthews,  a  smile. 

"You  do  not  kiss  it?"  observed  the  Father  of 
Swords. 

"  In  my  country/'  Matthews  began— 

"But  it  is,  may  I  be  your  sacrifice,"  interrupted 
the  Father  of  Swords,  "a  letter  from  the  Shah  of  the 
Shahs  of  the  Firengis."  It  was  evident  that  he  was 
both  impressed  and  certain  of  impressing  his  hearer. 
"He  has  promised  eternal  peace  to  me  and  to  m% 
people." 

The  Englishman  in  Matthews  permitted  him  a 
second  smile. 

"The  Father  of  Swords,"  he  said,  "speaks  a  word 
which  I  do  not  understand.  I  am  a  Firengi,  but  I 
have  never  heard  of  a  Shah  of  the  Shahs  of  the  Firen 
gis.  In  the  house  of  Islam  are  there  not  many  who 
rule?  In  Tehran,  for  instance,  there  is  the  young 
Ahmed  Shah.  Then  among  the  Bakhtiaris  there  is 
an  Ilkhani,  at  Mohamera  there  is  the  Sheikh  of  the 
Cha'b,  and  in  the  valleys  of  Pusht-i-Kuh  none  is 
above  the  Father  of  Swords.  I  do  not  forget,  either, 
the  Emirs  of  Mecca  and  Afghanistan,  or  the  Sultan  in 
Stambul.  And  among  them  what  Firengi  shall  say 
who  is  the  greatest?  And  so  it  is  in  Firengistan.  Yet 
as  for  this  paper,  it  is  written  in  the  tongue  of  a  king 


336  THE   EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

smaller  than  the  one  whose  subject  I  am,  whose 
crown  has  been  worn  by  few  fathers.  But  the  name 
at  the  bottom  of  the  paper  is  not  his.  It  is  not  even 
a  name  known  to  the  Firengis  when  they  speak 
among  themselves  of  the  great  of  their  lands.  Where 
did  you  see  him?" 

The  Father  of  Swords  stroked  his  scarlet  beard, 
looking  at  his  young  visitor  with  more  of  a  gleam  in 
the  dull  black  of  his  eyes  than  Matthews  had  yet 
noticed. 

"Truly  it  is  said:  'Fix  not  thy  heart  on  what  is 
transitory,  for  the  Tigris  will  continue  to  flow  through 
Baghdad  after  the  race  of  Caliphs  is  extinct!'  You 
make  it  clear  to  me  that  you  are  of  the  People  of  the 
Chain." 

"If  I  were  of  the  People  of  the  Chain,"  protested 
Matthews,  "there  is  no  reason  why  I  should  hide  it. 
The  People  of  the  Chain  do  not  steal  secretly  through 
the  valleys  of  Pusht-i-Kuh,  telling  the  Lurs  lies  and 
giving  them  papers  in  the  night.  I  am  not  one  of 
the  People  of  the  Chain.  But  the  king  of  the  People 
of  the  Chain  is  also  my  king.  And  he  is  a  great  king, 
lord  of  many  lands  and  many  seas,  who  has  no  need 
of  secret  messengers,  hostlers  and  scullions  of  whom 
no  one  has  heard,  to  persuade  strangers  of  his  great 
ness." 

"Your  words  do  not  persuade  me!"  cried  the 
Father  of  Swords.  "A  wise  man  is  like  a  jar  in  the 
house  of  the  apothecary,  silent  but  full  of  virtues. 
If  the  king  who  sent  me  this  letter  has  such  hostlers 


THE  EMPEROR  OP  ELAM  337 

and  such  scullions,  how  great  must  be  his  khans  and 
viziers!  And  why  do  the  Turks  trust  him?  Why  do 
the  other  Firengis  allow  his  ships  in  Bushir  and  Bas 
ra?  Or  why  do  not  the  People  of  the  Chain  better 
prove  the  character  of  their  lord?  But  the  hand  of 
liberality  is  stronger  than  the  arm  of  power.  This 
king,  against  whom  you  speak,  heard  me  draw  the 
sigh  of  affliction  from  the  bosom  of  uncertainty  He 
deigned  to  regard  me  with  the  eye  of  patronage, 
sending  me  good  words  and  promises  of  peace  and 
friendship.  He  will  not  permit  the  house  of  Islam  to 
be  troubled.  From  many  we  have  heard  it." 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  Matthews.  "Now  I  understand 
why  you  have  not  kept  your  promises  to  the  People 
of  the  Chain!"  And  he  rubbed  his  thumb  against 
his  forefinger,  in  the  gesture  of  the  East  that  signifies 
the  payment  of  money. 

"Why  not?"  demanded  the  Father  of  Swords,  an 
grily.  "The  duty  of  a  king  is  munificence.  Or  why 
should  there  be  a  way  to  pass  through  my  moun 
tains?  Has  it  ever  been  said  of  the  Lur  that  he 
stepped  back  before  a  stranger?  That  is  for  the 
Shah  in  Tehran,  who  has  become  the  servant  of  the 
Russian!  Let  the  People  of  the  Chain  learn  that  my 
neck  does  not  know  how  to  bow!  And  what  guest 
are  you  to  sprinkle  my  sore  with  the  salt  of  harsh 
words?  A  boy,  who  comes  here  no  one  knows  why, 
on  hired  horses,  with  only  one  follower  to  attend 
him!" 

Matthews  flushed. 


338  THE  EMPEROR   OF  ELAM 

"Salman  Taki  Khan,"  he  retorted,  "it  is  true  that 
I  come  to  you  humbly,  and  without  a  beard.  And 
your  beard  is  already  white,  and  you  can  call  out 
thirty  thousand  men  to  follow  you.  Yet  a  piece  of 
gold  will  make  you  believe  a  lie.  And  I  swear  to  you 
that  whether  I  give  you  back  this  paper  to  put  in 
your  chest,  or  whether  I  spit  on  it  and  tear  it  in 
pieces  and  throw  it  to  the  wind  of  that  valley,  it  is 
one." 

To  which  the  Father  of  Swords  made  emphatic 
enough  rejoinder  by  snatching  the  parchment  away, 
rising  to  his  feet,  and  striding  out  of  the  room  without 
a  word. 

IV 

The  festivities  in  honour  of  the  Shah's  coronation 
took  place  at  Bala  Bala  with  due  solemnity.  Among 
the  black  tents  there  was  much  plucking  of  plaintive 
strings,  there  was  more  stuffing  of  mutton  and  pilau, 
and  after  dark  many  little  rockets,  improvised  out 
of  gunpowder  and  baked  clay,  traced  brief  ara 
besques  of  gold  against  the  black  of  the  underlying 
gorges.  The  castle  celebrated  in  the  same  simple 
way.  The  stuffing,  to  be  sure,  was  more  prolonged 
and  recondite,  while  dancers  imported  from  Dizful 
swayed  and  snapped  their  fingers,  singing  for  the 
pleasure  of  the  Father  of  Swords.  The  eyes  of  that 
old  man  of  the  mountain  remained  opaque  as  ever, 
save  when  he  rebuked  the  almoner  who  sat  at  meat 
with  him  for  indecorously  quoting  the  lines  of  Sadi, 


THE   EMPEROR   OF   ELAM  339 

when  he  says:  "Such  was  this  delicate  crescent  of 
the  moon,  and  fascination  of  the  holy,  this  form  of 
an  angel,  and  decoration  of  a  peacock,  that  let  them 
once  behold  her,  and  continence  must  cease  to  exist 
in  the  constitutions  of  the  chaste." 

This  rebuke  might  have  been  called  forth  by  the 
presence  of  another  guest  of  the  board.  Be  that  as 
it  may,  the  eyes  of  the  Father  of  Swords  glimmered 
perceptibly  when  they  rested  on  the  unannounced 
visitor  for  whom  he  fished  out,  with  his  own  henna  'ed 
fingers,  the  fattest  morsels  of  mutton  and  the  juiciest 
sweets.  I  hasten  to  add  that  the  newcomer  was  not 
the  one  whose  earlier  arrival  and  interview  with  the 
Father  of  Swords  has  already  been  recorded.  He 
was,  nevertheless,  a  personage  not  unknown  to  this 
record,  whether  as  Senhor  Magin  of  Brazil  or  as  the 
emissary  of  the  Shah  of  the  Shahs  of  Firengistan. 
For  not  only  had  he  felt  impelled  to  bid  good-bye  a 
second  time  to  his  friend  Adolf  Ganz,  prince  among 
the  merchants  of  Shustar.  He  had  even  postponed 
his  voyage  down  the  Karun  long  enough  to  make 
one  more  journey  overland  to  Bala  Bala.  And  he 
heard  there,  not  without  interest,  the  story  of  the 
short  visit  and  the  sudden  flight  of  the  young  Eng 
lishman  he  had  accidentally  met  on  the  river. 

As  for  Matthews,  he  celebrated  the  coronation  at 
Dizful,  in  bed.  And  by  the  time  he  had  slept  off  his 
fag,  Bala  Bala  and  the  Father  of  Swords  and  the 
green  chest  and  the  ingenious  Magin  looked  to  him 
more  than  ever  like  figures  of  myth.  He  was  too 


340  THE   EMPEROR   OF  ELAM 

little  of  the  timber  out  of  which  journalists,  roman 
cers,  or  diplomats  are  made  to  take  them  very  serious 
ly.  The  world  he  lived  in,  moreover,  was  too  solid 
to  be  shaken  by  any  such  flimsy  device  as  the  one  of 
which  he  had  happened  to  catch  a  glimpse.  What 
had  been  real  to  him  was  that  he,  Guy  Matthews, 
had  been  suspected  of  playing  a  part  in  story-book 
intrigues,  and  had  been  treated  rudely  by  an  old 
barbarian  of  whom  he  expected  the  proverbial  hos 
pitality  of  the  East.  His  affair  had  therefore  been 
to  show  Mr.  Scarlet  Beard  that  if  a  Lur  could  turn 
his  back,  an  Englishman  could  do  likewise.  He  now 
saw,  to  be  sure,  that  he  himself  had  not  been  alto 
gether  the  pattern  of  courtesy.  But  the  old  man  of 
the  mountain  had  got  what  was  coming  to  him.  And 
Matthews  regretted  very  little,  after  all,  missing 
what  he  had  gone  to  see.  For  Dizful,  peering  at  him 
through  the  arches  of  the  bridge,  reminded  that  there 
was  still  something  to  see. 

It  must  be  said  of  him,  however,  that  he  showed 
no  impatience  to  see  the  neighbouring  ruins  of  Susa. 
He  was  not  one,  this  young  man  who  was  out  for  a 
bit  of  a  lark,  to  sentimentalise  about  antiquity  or 
the  charm  of  the  unspoiled.  Yet  even  such  young 
men  are  capable  of  finding  the  rumness  of  strange 
towns  a  passable  enough  lark,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
general  unexpectedness  of  life.  And  Dizful  turned 
out  to  be  quite  as  unexpected,  in  its  way,  as  Bala 
Bala.  Matthews  found  that  out  before  he  had  been 
three  days  in  the  place,  when  a  sudden  roar  set  all 


THE   EMPEROR   OF  ELAM  341 

the  loose  little  panes  tinkling  in  Shir  AH  Khan's  gar 
den  windows. 

Abbas  explained  that  this  was  merely  a  cannon 
shot,  announcing  the  new  moon  of  Ramazan.  That 
loud  call  of  the  faith  evidently  made  Dizful  a  rummer 
place  than  it  normally  was.  Matthews  soon  got  used 
to  the  daily  repetitions  of  the  sound,  rumbling  off  at 
sunset  and  before  dawn  into  the  silence  of  the  plains. 
But  the  recurrent  explosion  became  for  him  the  voice 
of  the  particular  rumness  of  that  fanatical  old  border 
town — of  fierce  suns,  terrific  smells,  snapping  dogs, 
and  scowling  people.  When  the  stranger  without 
the  gate  crossed  his  bridge  of  a  morning  for  a  stroll 
in  the  town,  he  felt  like  a  discoverer  of  some  lost 
desert  city.  He  threaded  alleys  of  blinding  light,  he 
explored  dim  thatched  bazaars,  he  studied  tiled 
doorways  in  blank  mud  walls,  he  investigated  quaint 
water-mills  by  the  river,  and  scarce  a  soul  did  he  see, 
unless  a  stork  in  its  nest  on  top  of  a  tall  badgir  or  a 
naked  dervish  lying  in  a  scrap  of  shade  asleep  under 
a  lion  skin.  It  was  as  if  Dizful  drowsed  sullenly  in 
that  July  blaze  brewing  something,  like  a  geyser, 
and  burst  out  with  it  at  the  end  of  the  unendurable 
day. 

The  brew  of  the  night,  however,  was  a  different 
mixture,  quite  the  rummest  compound  of  its  kind 
Matthews  had  ever  tasted.  The  bang  of  the  sunset 
gun  instantly  brought  the  deserted  city  back  to  life. 
Lights  began  to  twinkle — in  tea  houses,  along  the 
river,  among  the  indigo  plantations— streets  filled 


\ 
342  THE   EMPEROR   OF   ELAM 

with  ghostly  costumes  and  jostling  camels,  and  every 
where  voices  would  celebrate  the  happy  return  of 
dusk  so  strangely  and  piercingly  that  they  made 
Matthews  think  of  "battles  far  away."  This  was 
most  so  when  he  listened  to  them,  out  of  sight  of 
unfriendly  eyes,  from  his  own  garden.  Above  the 
extraordinary  rumour  that  drifted  to  him  through 
the  arches  of  the  bridge  he  heard  the  wailing  of  pipes, 
raucous  blasts  of  cow  horns,  the  thumping  of  drums; 
while  dogs  barked  incessantly,  and  all  night  long  the 
caravans  of  Mesopotamia  jingled  to  and  fro.  Then 
the  cannon  would  thunder  out  its  climax,  and  the 
city  would  fall  anew  under  the  spell  of  the  sun. 

The  moon  of  those  Arabian  nights  was  nearing  it 
first  quarter  and  Matthews  was  waiting  for  it  to  be 
come  bright  enough  for  him  to  fulfill  his  true  duty  as 
a  sight-seer  by  riding  to  the  mounds  of  Susa,  YfH^; 
Dizful  treated  him  to  fresh  discoveries  as  to  what  an 
unspoiled  town  may  contain.  It  contained,  Abbas 
informed  Matthews  with  some  mystery  after  one  of 
his  prolonged  visits  to  the  bazaar^  another  firengi.' 
This  firengi's  servant,  moreover,  Had  given  Abbas' 
explicit  directions  as  to  the  whereabouts  of  the  firen 
gi's  house,  in  order  that  Abbas  might  give  due  warn 
ing,  as  is  the  custom  of  the  country,  of  a  call  from 
Matthews.  Whereat  Matthews  made  ther  surprising 
announcement  that  he  had  not  come  to  Dizful  to  call 
on  firengis.  The  chief  charm  of  Dizful  for  him,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  was  that  there  he  felt  himself  free  of 
the  social  obligations  under  which  he  had  lain  rather 


THE   EMPEROR   OP   ELAM  343 

longer  than  he  liked.  But  if  Abbas  was  able  to  resign 
himself  to  this  new  proof  of  the  eccentricity  of  his 
master,  the  unknown  firengi  apparently  was  not.  At 
all  events,  Matthews  soon  made  another  discovery 
as  to  the  possibilities  of  Dizful.  An  evening  or  two 
later,  as  he  loitered  on  the  bridge  watching  a  string 
of  loaded  camels,  a  respectable-looking  old  gentleman 
in  a  black  aba  addressed  him  in  French.  French  in 
Dizful!  And  it  appeared  that  this  remarkable  Elam- 
ite  was  a  Jew,  who  had  picked  up  in  Baghdad  the 
idiom  of  Paris!  He  went  on  to  describe  himself  as 
the  "  agent "  of  a  distinguished  foreign  resident,  who, 
the  linguistic  old  gentleman  gave  Matthews  to  under 
stand,  languished  for  a  sight  of  the  new-comer,  and 
was  unable  to  understand  why  he  had  not  already 
been  favoured  with  a  call.  His  pain  was  the  deeper 
because  the  newcomer  had  recently  enjoyed  the  hos- 
Pioi^cy  of  this  distinguished  foreign  resident  on  a 
little  yacht  in  the  river. 

"The  unmitigated  bounder!"  exclaimed  Mat 
thews,  unable  to  deliver  himself  in  French  of  that 
sentiment,  and  tu1  ning  upon  the  stupefied  old  gentle 
man  a  rude  Anglo-Saxon  back.  "He  has  cheek 
enough  for  anything." 

He  had  enough,  at  any  rate,  to  knock  the  next 
afternoon,  unannounced,  on  Matthews's  gate,  to  fol 
low  Matthtws's  servant  into  the  house  without  wait 
ing  to  hear  whether  Matthews  would  receive  him, 
to  present  himself  at  the  door  of  the  dim  under 
ground  serdab  where  Matthews  lounged  in  his  pyja- 


344  THE   EMPEROR   OF  ELAM 

mas  till  it  should  be  cool  enough  to  go  out,  to  make 
Matthews  the  most  ceremonious  of  bows,  and  to  give 
that  young  man  a  half-amused,  half-annoyed,  con 
sciousness  of  being  put  at  his  ease.  The  advantage 
of  position,  Matthews  had  good  reason  to  feel,  was 
with  himself.  He  knew  more  about  the  bounder 
than  the  bounder  thought,  and  it  was  not  he  who 
had  knocked  at  the  bounder's  gate.  Yet  the  sound 
of  that  knock,  pealing  muffled  through  the  hot 
silence,  had  been  distinctly  welcome.  Nor  could  our 
incipient  connoisseur  of  rum  towns  pretend  that  the 
sight  of  Magin  bowing  in  the  doorway  was  wholly 
unwelcome,  so  long  had  he  been  stewing  there  in  the 
sun  by  himself.  What  annoyed  him,  what  amused 
him,  what  in  spite  of  himself  impressed  him,  was  to 
see  how  the  bounder  ignored  advantages  of  position. 
Matthews  had  forgotten,  too,  what  an  imposing  in 
dividual  the  bounder  really  was.  And  measuring  his 
tall  figure,  listening  to  his  deep  voice,  looking  at  his 
light  eyes  and  his  two  sinister  scars  and  the  big 
shaved  dome  of  a  head  which  he  this  time  uncovered, 
our  cool  enough  young  man  wondered  whether  there 
might  be  something  more  than  fantastic  about  this 
navigator  of  strange  waters.  It  was  rather  odd,  at 
all  events,  how  he  kept  bobbing  up,  and  what  a 
power  he  had  of  quickening — what?  A  school- 
boyish  sense  of  the  romantic?  Or  mere  vulgar  curi 
osity?  For  he  suddenly  found  himself  aware,  Guy 
Matthews,  that  what  he  knew  about  his  visitor  was 
less  than  what  he  desired  to  know. 


THE   EMPEROR   OF  ELAM  345 

The  visitor  made  no  haste,  however,  to  volunteer 
any  information.  Nor  did  he  make  of  Matthews 
any  but  the  most  perfunctory  inquiries. 

"And  Monsieur —  What  was  his  name?  Your 
Frenchman?"  he  continued. 

"Gaston.  He's  not  my  Frenchman,  though,"  re 
plied  Matthews.  "He  went  back  long  ago." 

"Oh!"  uttered  Magin.  He  declined  the  refresh 
ments  which  Abbas  at  that  point  produced,  even  to 
the  cigarette  Matthews  offered  him.  He  merely 
glanced  at  the  make.  Then  he  examined,  with  a 
flicker  of  amusement  in  his  eyes,  the  bare  white 
washed  room.  A  runnel  of  water  trickled  across  it 
in  a  stone  channel  that  widened  in  the  centre  into  a 
shallow  pool.  "A  bit  of  a  lark,  eh?  I  remember  that 
mot  of  yours,  Mr.  Matthews.  To  sit  steaming,  or 
perhaps  I  should  say  dreaming,  in  a  sort  of  Turkish 
bath  in  the  bottom  of  Elam  while  over  there  in 
Europe- 

"Is  there  anything  new?"  asked  Matthews,  re 
cognising  his  caller's  habit  of  finishing  a  sentence 
with  a  gestu/e.  "Archdukes  and  that  sort  of  thing 
don't  seem  to  matter  much  in  Dizful.  I  have  even 
lost  track  of  the  date." 

"I  would  not  have  thought  an  Englishman  so — 
dolce  far  niente,"  said  Magin.  "  It  is  perhaps  because 
we  archaeologists  feed  on  dates !  I  happen  to  recollect, 
though,  that  we  first  met  on  the  eighteenth  of  July. 
And  to-day,  if  you  would  like  to  know,  is  Saturday, 
the  first  of  August,  1914."  The  flicker  of  amuse- 


346  THE   EMPEROR   OF   ELAM 

ment  in  his  eyes  became  something  more  inscruta 
ble.  "But  there  is  a  telegraph  even  in  Elam,"  he 
went  on.  "A  little  news  trickles  out  of  it  now  and 
then.  Don't  you  ever  catch,  perhaps,  some  echo  of 
the  trickle?" 

"That's  not  my  idea  of  a  lark/7  laughed  Mat 
thews. 

Magin  regarded  him  a  moment. 

"Well,"  he  conceded,  "Europe  does  take  on  a  new 
perspective  from  the  point  of  view  of  Susa.  I  see 
you  are  a  philosopher,  sitting  amidst  the  ruins  of 
empires  and  wisely  preferring  the  trickle  of  your 
fountain  to  the  trickle  of  the  telegraph.  If  Austria 
falls  to  pieces,  if  Serbia  reaches  the  Adriatic,  what  is 
that  to  us?  Nothing  but  a  story  that  in  Elam  has 
been  told  too  often  to  have  any  novelty!  Eh?" 

"Why,"  asked  Matthews,  quickly,  "is  that  on  al 
ready?" 

Magin  looked  at  him  again  a  moment  before  an 
swering. 

"Not  yet!  But  why,"  he  added,  "do  you  say  al 
ready?" 

His  voice  had  a  curious  rumble  in  the  dim  stone 
room.  Matthews  wondered  whether  it  were  because 
the  acoustic  properties  of  a  serdab  in  Dizful  differ 
from  those  of  a  galley  on  the  Karun,  or  whether  there 
really  were  something  new  about  him. 

"Why,  it's  bound  to  come  sooner  or  later,  isn't  it? 
If  it's  true  that  all  the  way  from  Nish  to  Ragusa 
those  chaps  speak  the  same  language  and  belong  to 


THE   EMPEROR   OF  ELAM  347 

the  same  race,  one  can  hardly  blame  them  for  want 
ing  to  do  what  the  Italians  and  the  Germans  have 
already  done.  And,  as  a  philosopher  sitting  amidst 
the  ruins  of  empires,  wouldn't  you  say  yourself  that 
Austria  has  bitten  off  rather  more  than  she  can 
chew?" 

"Very  likely  I  should/'  Magin  took  a  cigar  out 
of  his  pocket,  snipped  off  the  end  with  a  patent  cut 
ter,  lighted  it,  and  regarded  the  smoke  with  a  growing 
look  of  amusement.  "But,"  he  went  on,  "as  a 
philosopher  sitting  amidst  the  ruins  of  empires,  I 
would  hardly  confine  that  observation  to  Austria- 
Hungary.  For  instance,  I  have  heard" — and  his 
look  of  amusement  verged  on  a  smile — "of  an  island 
in  the  Atlantic  Ocean  not  much  larger  than  the  land 
of  Elam,  an  island  of  rains  and  fogs  whose  people, 
feeling  the  need  of  a  little  more  sunlight  perhaps,  or 
of  pin-money  and  elbow-room,  sailed  away  and  con 
quered  for  themselves  two  entire  continents,  as  well 
as  a  good  part  of  a  third.  I  have  also  heard  that  the 
inhabitants  of  this  island,  not  content  with  killing 
and  enslaving  so  many  defenceless  fellow-creatures, 
or  with  picking  up  any  lesser  island,  cape,  or  bay 
that  happened  to  suit  their  fancy,  took  it  upon  them 
selves  to  govern  several  hundred  million  unwilling 
individuals  of  all  colours  and  religions  in  other  parts  of 
the  world.  And,  having  thus  procured  both  sunlight 
and  elbow-room,  those  enterprising  islanders  assumed 
a  virtuous  air  and  pushed  the  high  cries — as  our 
friend  Gaston  would  say — if  any  of  their  neighbours 


348  THE  EMPEROR   OF  ELAM 

ever  showed  the  slightest  symptom  of  following  their 
very  successful  example.  Have  you  ever  heard  of 
such  an  island?  And  would  you  not  say — as  a 
philosopher  sitting  amidst  the  ruins  of  empires!— 
that  it  had  also  bitten  off  rather  more  than  it  could 
chew?" 

Matthews,  facing  the  question  and  the  now  open 
smile,  felt  that  he  wanted  to  be  cool,  but  that  he  did 
not  altogether  succeed. 

"I  dare  say  that  two  or  three  hundred  years  ago 
we  did  things  we  wouldn't  do  now.  Times  have 
changed  in  all  sorts  of  ways.  But  we  never  set  out 
like  a  Caesar  or  a  Napoleon  or  a  Bismarck  to  invent 
an  empire.  It  all  came  about  quite  naturally.  Any 
body  else  could  have  done  the  same.  But  nobody 
else  thought  of  it — at  the  time.  We  simply  got 
there  first." 

"Ah?"  Magin  smiled  more  broadly.  "It  seems  to 
me  that  I  have  heard  of  another  island,  not  so  far 
from  here,  which  is  no  more  than  a  pin-point,  to  be 
sure,  but  which  happens  to  be  the  key  of  the  Persian 
Gulf.  I  have  also  heard  that  the  Portuguese  got 
there  first,  as  you  put  it.  But  you  crushed  Portugal, 
you  crushed  Spain,  you  crushed  Holland,  you 
crushed  France — or  you  meant  to.  And  I  must  say 
it  looks  to  me  as  if  you  would  not  mind  crushing 
Germany.  Why  do  you  go  on  building  ships,  building 
ships,  building  ships,  always  two  to  Germany's  one? 
Simply  that  you  and  your  friends  may  go  on  eating 
up  Asia  and  Africa — and  perhaps  Germany  too!" 


THE   EMPEROR  OF  ELAM  349 

Matthews  noticed  that  the  elder  man  ended,  at 
any  rate,  not  quite  so  coolly  as  he  began. 

"Nonsense!  The  thing's  so  simple  it  isn't  worth 
repeating.  We  have  to  have  more  ships  than  any 
body  else  because  our  empire  is  bigger  than  anybody 
else's — and  more  scattered.  As  for  eating,  it  strikes 
me  that  Germany  has  done  more  of  that  lately  than 
any  one.  However,  if  you  know  so  much  about 
islands,  you  must  also  know  how  we  happened  to  go 
into  India — or  Egypt.  In  the  beginning  it  was  pure 
accident.  And  you  know  very  well  that  if  we  left 
them  to-morrow  there  would  be  the  devil  to  pay. 
Do  we  get  a  penny  out  of  them?" 

"Oh,  no!"  laughed  Magin.  "You  administer 
them  purely  on  altruistic  principles,  for  their  own 
good  and  that  of  the  world  at  large — like  the  oil- 
wells  of  the  Karun!" 

"Well,  since  you  put  it  that  way,"  laughed  Mat 
thews  in  turn,  "perhaps  we  do!" 

Magin  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Extraordinary  people!  Do  you  really  think  the 
rest  of  the  world  so  stupid?  Or  is  it  that  the  fog  of 
your  island  has  got  into  your  brains?  You  always 
talk  about  truth  as  if  it  were  a  patented  British  in 
vention,  yet  no  one  is  less  willing  to  call  a  spade  a 
spade.  Look  at  Cairo,  where  you  pretend  to  keep 
nothing  but  a  consul-general,  but  where  the  ruler  of 
the  country  can't  turn  over  in  bed  without  his  per 
mission.  A  consul-general!  Look  at  your  novels! 
Look  at  what  you  yourself  are  saying  to  me!" 


350  THE   EMPEROR   OF  ELAM 

Matthews  lighted  a  pipe  over  it. 

"  In  a  way,  of  course,  you  are  right,"  he  said.  "  But 
I  am  not  sure  that  we  are  altogether  wrong.  Spades 
exist,  but  there's  no  inherent  virtue  in  talking  about 
them.  In  fact  it's  often  better  not  to  mention  them 
at  all.  There's  something  very  funny  about  words, 
you  know.  They  so  often  turn  out  to  mean  more  than 
you  expected." 

At  that  Magin  regarded  his  companion  with  a  new 
interest. 

"  I  would  not  have  thought  you  knew  that,  at  your 
age!  But  after  all,  if  you  will  allow  me  to  say  so,  it 
is  a  woman's  point  of  view.  A  man  ought  to  say 
things  out — and  stick  by  them.  He  is  less  likely  to 
get  into  trouble  afterward.  For  example,  it  would 
have  been  not  only  more  honest  but  more  advan 
tageous  for  your  country  if  you  had  openly  annexed 
Egypt  in  the  beginning.  Now  where  are  you?  You 
continually  have  to  explain,  and  to  watch  very 
sharply  lest  some  other  consul-general  tell  the  Khe 
dive  to  turn  over  in  bed.  And  since  you  and  the 
Russians  intend  to  eat  up  Persia,  why  on  earth  don't 
you  do  it  frankly,  instead  of  trying  not  to  frighten 
the  Persians,  and  talking  vaguely  about  spheres  of 
influence,  neutral  zones,  and  what  not?  I'm  afraid 
the  truth  is  that  you're  getting  old  and  fat.  What?  " 
He  glanced  over  his  cigar  at  Matthews,  who  was  re 
garding  the  trickle  of  the  water  beside  them.  "  Those 
Russians,  they  are  younger,"  he  went  on.  "They 
have  still  to  be  reckoned  with.  And  they  aren't  so 


THE   EMPEROR  OF  ELAM  351 

squeamish,  either  in  novels  or  in  life.  Look  at  what 
they  have  done  in  their  'sphere/  They  have  roads, 
they  have  Cossacks,  they  have  the  Shah  under  their 
thumb.  And  whenever  they  choose  they  shut  the 
Baghdad  trail  against  your  caravans — yours,  with 
whom  they  have  an  understanding!  A  famous  un 
derstanding!  You  don't  even  understand  how  to 
make  the  most  of  your  own  sphere.  You  have  had 
the  Karun  in  your  hands  for  three  hundred  years, 
and  what  have  you  done  with  it?  Why,  in  heaven's 
name,  didn't  you  blast  out  that  rock  at  Ahwaz  long 
ago?  Why  haven't  you  made  a  proper  road  to  Isfa 
han?  Why  don't  you  build  that  railroad  to  Khorrem- 
abad  that  you  are  always  talking  about,  and  finish 
it  before  the  Germans  get  to  Baghdad?  Ah!  If 
they  had  been  here  in  your  place  you  would  have 
seen!" 

"It  strikes  me,"  retorted  Matthews,  with  less 
coolness  than  he  yet  had  shown,  "that  you  are  here 
already — from  what  the  Father  of  the  Swords  told 
me."  And  he  looked  straight  at  the  man  who  had 
told  him  that  an  Englishman  couldn't  call  a  spade  a 
spade.  But  he  saw  anew  how  that  man  could  ignore 
an  advantage  of  position. 

Magin  returned  the  look — frankly,  humorously, 
quizzically.  Then  he  said: 

"You  remind  me,  by  the  way,  of  a  question  I  came 
to  ask  you.  Would  you  object  to  telling  me  what 
you  are  up  to  here?" 

"What  am  I  up  to?"  queried  Matthews,  in  aston- 


352  THE  EMPEROR   OF  ELAM 

ishment.  The  cheek  of  the  bounder  was  really  be 
yond  everything!  "What  do  you  mean?" 

Magin  smiled. 

"I  am  not  an  Englishman.    I  mean  what  I  say." 

"No  you're  not!"  Matthews  threw  back  at  him. 
"No  Englishman  would  try  to  pass  himself  off  for  a 
Brazilian." 

Magin  smiled  again. 

"Nor  would  a  German  jump  too  hastily  at  con 
clusions.  If  I  told  you  I  was  from  Brazil,  I  spoke 
the  truth.  I  was  born  there,  as  were  many  English 
men  I  know.  That  makes  them  very  little  less  Eng 
lish,  though  it  has  perhaps  made  me  more  German. 
Who  knows?  As  a  philosopher  sitting  with  you 
amidst  the  ruins  of  empires  I  am  at  least  inclined  to 
believe  that  we  take  our  mother  country  more  seri 
ously  than  you  do  yours !  But  to  return  to  our  point : 
what  are  you  doing  here?" 

"I'm  attending  to  my  business.  Which  seems  to 
me  more  than  you  are  doing,  Mr.  Magin." 

Matthews  noticed,  from  the  reverberation  of  the 
room,  that  his  voice  must  have  been  unnecessarily 
loud.  He  busied  himself  with  the  bowl  of  his  pipe. 
As  for  Magin,  he  got  up  and  began  walking  to  and 
fro,  drawing  at  his  cigar.  The  red  of  it  showed  how 
much  darker  the  room  had  been  growing.  It  in 
creased,  too,  the  curious  effect  of  his  eyes.  They 
looked  like  two  empty  holes  in  a  mask. 

"Eh,  too  bad!"  sighed  the  visitor  at  last.  "You 
disappoint  ine.  Do  you  know?  You  are,  of  course, 


THE   EMPEROR   OF  ELAM  353 

much  younger  than  I;  but  you  made  me  hope  that 
you  were  perhaps — how  shall  I  put  it? — a  spirit  of 
the  first  class.  I  hoped  that  without  padding,  with 
out  rancour,  like  true  philosophers,  we  might  ex 
change  our  points  of  view.  However—  Since  it 
suits  you  to  stand  on  your  dignity,  I  must  say  that  I 
am  very  distinctly  attending  to  my  business.  And 
I  am  obliged  to  add  that  it  does  not  help  my  business, 
Mr.  Matthews,  to  have  you  sitting  so  mysteriously 
in  Dizful — and  refusing  to  call  on  me,  but  occasion 
ally  calling  on  nomad  chiefs.  I  confess  that  you 
don't  look  to  me  like  a  spy.  Spies  are  generally  older 
men  than  you,  more  cooked,  as  Gaston  would  say, 
more  fluent  in  languages.  It  does  not  seem  to  me, 
either,  that  even  an  English  spy  would  go  about  his 
affairs  quite  as  you  have  done.  Still,  I  regret  to  have 
to  repeat  that  I  dislike  your  idea  of  a  lark.  And  not 
only  because  you  upset  nomad  chiefs.  You  upset 
other  people  as  well.  You  might  even  end  by  upset 
ting  yourself." 

"Who  the  devil  are  you?"  demanded  Matthews, 
hotly.  "The  Emperor  of  Elam?" 

"Ha!  I  see  you  are  acquainted  with  the  excellent 
Adolf  Ganz!"  laughed  Magin.  "No,"  he  went  on 
in  another  tone.  "His  viceroy,  perhaps.  But  as  I 
was  saying,  it  does  not  suit  me  to  have  you  stopping 
here.  I  can  see,  however,  that  you  have  reason  to 
be  surprised,  possibly  annoyed,  at  my  telling  you  so. 
I  am  willing  to  be  reasonable  about  it.  How  much 
do  you  want — for  the  expenses  of  your  going  away?  " 


354  THE   EMPEROR   OF  ELAM 

Matthews  could  hardly  believe  his  ears.    He  got 
up  in  turn. 

"What  in  hell  do  you  mean  by  that?" 
"I  am  sorry,  Mr.  Matthews,"  answered  the  other 
slowly,  "that  my  knowledge  of  your  language  does 
not  permit  me  to  make  myself  clear  to  you.  Perhaps 
you  will  understand  me  better  if  I  quote  from  your 
self.  I  got  here  first.  Did  you  ever  put  your  foot 
into  this  country  until  two  weeks  ago?  Did  your 
countrymen  ever  trouble  themselves  about  it,  even 
after  Layard  showed  them  the  way?  No!  They  ex 
pressly  left  it  outside  of  their  famous  'sphere/  in 
that  famous  neutral  zone.  And  all  these  centuries 
it  has  been  lying  here  in  the  sun,  asleep,  forgotten, 
deserted,  lost,  given  over  to  nomads  and  to  lions— 
until  I  came.  I  am  the  first  European  since  Alex 
ander  the  Great  who  has  seen  what  it  might  be.  It 
is  not  so  impossible  that  I  might  open  again  those 
choked-up  canals  which  once  made  these  burnt  plains 
a  paradise.  In  those  mountains  I  have  found — what 
I  have  found.  What  right  have  you  to  interfere  with 
me,  who  are  only  out  for  a  lark?  Or  what  right  have 
your  countrymen?  They  have  already,  as  you  so 
gracefully  express  it,  bitten  off  so  much  more  than 
they  can  chew!  The  Gulf,  the  Karun,  the  oil-wells 
—they  are  yours.  Take  them.  But  Baghdad  is 
ours:  if  not  to-day,  then  to-morrow.  And  if  you  will 
exercise  that  logical  process  of  which  your  British 
mind  appears  to  be  not  altogether  destitute,  you  can 
hardly  help  seeing  that  this  part  of  your  famous 


THE  EMPEROR   OF  ELAM  355 

neutral  zone,  if  not  the  whole  of  it,  falls  into  the 
sphere  of  Baghdad.  You  know,  too,  that  we  do 
things  more  thoroughly  than  you.  Therefore  I  must 
very  respectfully  but  very  firmly  ask  you,  at  your 
very  earliest  convenience,  to  leave  Dizful.  I  am 
quite  willing  to  believe,  however,  that  your  inter 
ference  with  my  arrangements  was  accidental.  And 
I  dislike  to  put  you  to  any  unnecessary  trouble.  So 
I  shall  be  happy  to  compensate  you,  in  marks,  to 
mans,  or  pounds  sterling,  for  any  disappointment 
you  may  feel  in  bringing  this  particular  lark  to  an 
end.  Do  you  now  understand  me?  How  much  do 
you  want?" 

He  perceived,  Guy  Matthews,  that  his  lark  had 
indeed  taken  an  unexpected  turn.  He  was  destined, 
far  sooner  than  he  dreamed,  to  be  asked  of  life,  and 
to  answer,  questions  even  more  direct  than  this. 
But  until  now  life  had  chosen  to  confront  him  with 
no  problem  more  pressing  than  one  of  cricket  or 
hunting.  He  was  therefore  troubled  by  an  unwonted 
confusion  of  feelings.  For  he  felt  that  his  ordinary 
vocabulary — made  up  of  such  substantives  as  lark, 
cheek,  and  bounder,  and  the  comprehensive  adjec 
tive  [rum — fell  short  of  coping  with  this  extraordi 
nary  speech.  He  even  felt  that  he  might  possibly 
have  answered  in  a  different  way,  but  for  that  un 
speakable  offer  of  money.  And  the  rumble  of  Ma- 
gin's  bass  in  the  dark  stone  room  somehow  threw  a 
light  on  the  melancholy  land  without,  somehow  gave 
him  a  dim  sense  that  he  did  not  answer  for  himself 


356  THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

alone — that  he  answered  for  the  tradition  of  Layard 
and  Rawlinson  and  Morier  and  Sherley,  of  Clive  and 
Kitchener,  of  Drake  and  Raleigh  and  Nelson,  of  all 
the  adventurous  young  men  of  that  beloved  foggy 
island  at  which  this  pseudo-Brazilian  jeered. 

"When  I  first  met  you  in  the  river,  Mr.  Magin," 
he  said  quietly,  "I  confess  I  did  not  realise  how 
much  of  the  spoils  of  Susa  you  were  carrying  away 
in  your  chests.  And  I  didn't  take  your  gold  anklet 
as  a  bribe,  though  I  didn't  take  you  for  too  much  of 
a  gentleman  in  offering  it  to  me.  But  all  I  have  to 
say  now  is  that  I  shall  stay  in  Dizful  as  long  as  I 
please — and  that  you  had  better  clear  out  of  this 
house  unless  you  want  me  to  kick  you  out." 

"Heroics,  eh?  You  obstinate  little  fool!  I  could 
choke  you  with  one  hand ! " 

"You'd  better  try!"  retorted  Matthews. 

He  started  in  spite  of  himself  when  a  muffled  boom 
suddenly  answered  him,  jarring  even  the  sunken  walls 
of  the  room.  Then  he  remembered  that  voice  of  the 
drowsing  city,  bursting  out  with  the  pent-up  brew  of 
the  day. 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  Magin  strangely — "The  cannon 
speaks  at  last!  You  will  hear,  beside  your  fountain, 
what  it  has  to  say.  That,  at  any  rate,  you  will  per 
haps  understand — you  and  the  people  of  your  is 
land."  He  stopped  a  moment.  "But,"  he  went  on, 
"if  some  fasting  dervish  knocks  you  on  the  head  with 
his  mace,  or  sticks  his  knife  into  your  back,  don't  say 
I  didn't  warn  you!" 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM  357 

And  the  echo  of  his  receding  stamp  in  the  corridor 
drowned  for  a  moment  the  trickle  of  the  invisible 
water. 


The  destiny  of  some  men  lies  coiled  within  them, 
invisible  as  the  blood  of  their  hearts  or  the  stuff  of 
their  will,  working  darkly,  day  by  day  and  year  after 
year,  for  their  glory  or  for  their  destruction.  The 
destiny  of  other  men  is  an  accident,  a  god  from  the 
machine  or  an  enemy  in  ambush.  Such  was  the 
destiny  of  Guy  Matthews,  as  it  was  of  how  many 
other  unsuspecting  young  men  of  his  time.  It  would 
have  been  inconceivable  to  him,  as  he  stood  in  his 
dark  stone  room  listening  to  Magin 's  receding  stamp, 
that  anything  could  make  him  do  what  Magin  de 
manded.  Yet  something  did — the  last  drop  of  the 
acrid  essence  Dizful  had  been  brewing  for  him. 

The  letter  that  accomplished  this  miracle  came  to 
him  by  the  hand  of  a  Bakhtiari  from  Meidan-i-Naft. 
It  said  very  little.  It  said  so  little,  and  that  little  so 
briefly,  that  Matthews,  still  preoccupied  with  his 
own  quarrel,  at  first  saw  no  reason  why  a  stupid  war 
on  the  Continent,  and  the  consequent  impossibility 
of  telegraphing  home  except  by  way  of  India,  should 
affect  the  oil-works,  or  why  his  friends  should  put 
him  in  the  position  of  showing  Magin  the  white 
feather.  But  as  he  turned  over  the  Bakhtiari's  scrap 
of  paper  the  meaning  of  it  grew,  in  the  light  of  the 
very  circumstances  that  made  him  hesitate,  so  por- 


358  THE   EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

tentously  that  he  sent  Abbas  for  horses.  And  be 
fore  the  Ramazan  gun  boomed  again  he  was  well  on 
his  way  back  to  Meidan-i-Naft. 

There  was  something  unreal  to  him  about  that 
night  ride  eastward  across  the  dusty  moonlit  plain. 
He  never  forgot  that  night.  The  unexpectedness  of 
it  was  only  a  part  of  the  unreality.  What  pulled 
him  up  short  was  a  new  quality  in  the  general  un 
expectedness  of  life.  Life  had  always  been,  like  the 
trip  from  which  he  was  returning,  more  or  less  of  a 
lark.  Whereas  it  suddenly  appeared  that  life  might, 
perhaps,  be  very  little  of  a  lark.  So  far  as  he  had 
ever  pictured  life  to  himself  he  had  seen  it  as  an  ex 
tension  of  his  ordered  English  countryside,  beset  by 
no  hazard  more  searching  than  a  hawthorne  hedge. 
But  the  plain  across  which  he  rode  gave  him  a  new 
picture  of  it,  lighted  romantically  enough  by  the 
moon,  yet  offering  a  rider  magnificent  chances  to 
break  his  neck  in  some  invisible  nullah,  if  not  to  be 
waylaid  by  marauding  Lurs  or  lions.  It  even  began 
to  come  to  this  not  too  articulate  young  man  that 
romance  and  reality  might  be  the  same  thing,  ro 
mance  being  what  happens  to  the  other  fellow  and 
reality  being  what  happens  to  you.  He  looked  up  at 
the  moon  of  war  that  had  been  heralded  to  him  by 
cannon  and  tried  to  imagine  what,  under  that  same 
moon  far  away  in  Europe,  was  happening  to  the 
other  fellow.  For  it  was  entirely  on  the  cards  that 
it  might  also  happen  to  him,  Guy  Matthews,  who 
had  gone  up  the  Ab-i-Diz  for  a  lark !  That  experience 


THE   EMPEROR  OF  ELAM  359 

had  an  extraordinary  air  of  having  happened  to  some 
one  else,  as  he  went  back  in  his  mind  to  his  cruise  on 
the  river,  his  meeting  with  the  barge,  his  first  glimpse 
of  Dizful,  the  interlude  of  Bala  Bala,  the  return  to 
Dizful,  the  cannon,  Magin.  Magin!  He  was  extraor 
dinary  enough,  in  all  conscience,  as  Matthews  tried 
to  piece  together,  under  his  romantic-realistic  moon, 
the  various  unrelated  fragments  his  memory  pro 
duced  of  that  individual,  connoisseur  of  Greek  ky- 
lixes  and  Lur  nose-jewels,  quoter  of  Scripture  and 
secret  agent. 

The  bounder  must  have  known,  as  he  sat  smoking 
his  cigar  and  ironising  on  the  ruins  of  empires,  that 
the  safe  and  settled  little  world  to  which  they  both 
belonged  was  already  in  a  blaze.  Of  course  he  had 
known  it — and  he  had  said  nothing  about  it!  But 
not  least  extraordinary  was  the  way  the  bounder, 
whom  after  all  Matthews  had  only  seen  twice,  seemed 
to  colour  the  whole  adventure.  In  fact,  he  had  been 
the  first  speck  in  the  blue,  the  forerunner — if  Mat 
thews  had  only  seen  it— of  the  more  epic  adventure 
into  which  he  was  so  quickly  to  be  caught. 

At  Shustar  he  broke  his  journey.  There  were  still 
thirty  miles  to  do,  and  fresh  horses  were  to  be  hired 
— of  some  fasting  charvadar  who  would  never  consent 
in  Ramazan,  Matthews  very  well  knew,  to  start  for 
Meidan-i-Naft  under  the  terrific  August  sun.  But 
he  was  not  ungrateful  for  a  chance  to  rest.  He  dis 
covered  in  himself,  too,  a  sudden  interest  in  the 
trickle  of  the  telegraph.  And  he  was  anxious  to  pick 


360  THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

up  what  news  he  could  from  the  few  Europeans  in 
the  town.  Moreover,  he  needed  to  see  Ganz  about 
the  replenishing  of  his  money-bag;  for  not  the  light 
est  item  of  the  traveller's  pack  in  Persia  is  his  load  of 
silver  krans. 

At  the  telegraph  office  Matthews  ran  into  Ganz 
himself.  The  Swiss  was  a  short  fair  faded  man,  not 
too  neat  about  his  white  clothes,  with  a  pensive 
moustache  and  an  ambiguous  blue  eye  that  lighted  at 
sight  of  the  young  Englishman.  The  light,  however, 
was  not  one  to  illuminate  Matthews's  darkness  in  the 
matter  of  news.  What  news  trickled  out  of  the  local 
wire  was  very  meagre  indeed.  The  Austrians  were 
shelling  Belgrade,  the  Germans,  the  Russians,  and 
the  French  had  gone  in.  That  was  all.  No,  not 
quite  all;  for  the  bank-rate  in  England  had  suddenly 
jumped  sky-high — higher,  at  any  rate,  than  it  had 
ever  jumped  before.  And  even  Shustar  felt  the  dis 
tant  commotion,  in  that  the  bazaar  had  already  seen 
fit  to  put  up  the  price  of  sugar  and  petroleum.  Not 
that  Shustar  showed  any  outward  sign  of  commotion 
as  the  two  threaded  their  way  toward  Ganz's  house. 
The  deserted  streets  reminded  Matthews  strangely 
of  Dizful.  What  was  stranger  was  to  find  how  they 
reminded  him  of  a  chapter  that  is  closed.  He  hardly 
noticed  the  blank  walls,  the  archways  of  brick  and 
tile,  the  tall  badgirs,  even  the  filth  and  smells.  But 
strangest  was  it  to  listen  to  the  hot  silence,  to  look 
up  at  the  brilliant  stripe  of  blue  between  the  adobe 
walls,  while  over  there — ! 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM  361 

The  portentous  uncertainty  of  what  might  be  over 
there  made  his  answers  to  Ganz's  questions  about  his 
journey  curt  and  abstracted.  He  gave  no  explana 
tion  of  his  failure  to  see  the  celebration  at  Bala  Bala 
and  the  ruins  of  Susa,  which  Ganz  supposed  to  be  the 
chief  objects  of  his  excursion.  Yet  he  found  himself 
looking  with  a  new  eye  at  the  anomalous  exile  whom 
the  Father  of  Swords  called  the  prince  among  the 
merchants  of  Shustar,  noting  the  faded  untidy  air  as 
he  had  never  noted  it  before,  wondering  why  a  man 
should  bury  himself  in  such  a  hole  as  this.  Was  one 
now,  he  speculated,  to  look  at  everybody  all  over 
again?  He  was  not  the  kind  of  man,  Ganz,  to  in 
terest  the  Guy  Matthews  who  had  gone  to  Dizful. 
But  it  was  the  Guy  Matthews  who  came  back  from 
Dizful  who  didn't  like  Ganz's  name  or  Ganz's  good 
enough  accent.  Nevertheless  he  yielded  to  Ganz's 
insistence,  when  they  reached  the  office  and  the 
money-bag  had  been  restored  to  its  normal  portli 
ness,  that  the  traveller  should  step  into  the  house  to 
rest  and  cool  off. 

"Do  come!"  urged  the  Swiss.  "I  so  seldom 
see  a  civilised  being.  And  I  have  a  new  piano!" 
he  threw  in  as  an  added  inducement.  "Do  you 
play?" 

He  had  no  parlour  tricks,  he  told  Ganz,  and  he  told 
himself  that  he  wanted  to  get  on.  But  Ganz  had 
been  very  decent  to  him,  after  all.  And  he  began  to 
perceive  that  he  himself  was  extremely  tired.  So  he 
followed  Ganz  through  the  cloister  of  the  pool  to  the 


362  THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

court  where  the  great  basin  glittered  in  the  sun,  be 
low  the  pillared  portico. 

"  Who  is  that?  "  exlaimed  Ganz  suddenly.  "  What 
a  tone,  eh?  And  what  a  touch!" 

Matthews  heard  from  Ganz's  private  quarters  a 
welling  of  music  so  different  from  the  pipes  and  cow- 
horns  of  Dizful  that  it  gave  him  a  sudden  stab  of 
homesickness. 

"I  say"  he  said,  brightening,  "could  it  be  any  of 
the  fellows  from  Meidan-i-Naft?  " 

The  ambiguous  blue  eye  brightened  too. 

"Perhaps!  It  is  the  river  music  from  Rheingold. 
But  listen,"  Ganz  added  with  a  smile.  "There  are 
sharks  among  the  Rhine  maidens!" 

They  went  on,  up  the  steps  of  the  portico,  to  the 
door  which  Ganz  opened  softly,  stepping  aside  for  his 
visitor  to  pass  in.  The  room  was  so  dark,  after  the 
the  blinding  light  of  the  court,  that  Matthews  saw 
nothing  at  first.  He  stepped  forward  eagerly,  feeling 
his  way  among  Ganz's  tables  and  chairs  toward  the 
end  of  the  room  from  which  the  music  came.  They 
gave  him,  the  cluttering  tables  and  chairs,  after  the 
empty  rooms  he  had  been  living  in,  a  sharper  re 
newal  of  his  stab.  And  even  a  piano — !  It  made  him 
think  of  Kipling  and  the  Song  of  the  Banjo: 

"I  am  memory  and  torment — I  am  Town! 
I  am  all  that  ever  went  with  evening  dress!" 

But  what  mute  inglorious  Paderewski  of  the  re 
stricted  circle  he  had  moved  in  for  the  past  months 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM  363 

was  capable  of  such  parlour  tricks  as  this?  Then, 
suddenly,  he  saw.  He  saw,  swaying  back  and  forth 
against  the  dark  background  of  the  piano,  a  domed 
shaven  head  that  made  him  stop  short — that  head 
full  of  so  many  astounding  things!  He  saw,  travelling 
swiftly  up  and  down  the  keys,  rising  above  them  to 
an  extravagant  height  and  pouncing  down  upon 
them  again,  those  predatory  hands  that  had  pounced 
on  the  spoils  of  Susa!  They  began,  in  a  moment,  to 
flutter  lightly  over  the  upper  end  of  the  keyboard. 
It  was  extraordinary  what  a  ripple  poured  as  if  out 
of  those  hands.  Magin  himself  bent  over  to  listen  to 
the  ripple,  partly  showing  his  face  as  he  turned  his 
ear  to  the  keys.  He  showed,  too,  in  the  lessening 
gloom,  a  smile  Matthews  had  never  seen  before, 
more  extraordinary  than  anything.  Yet  even  as 
Matthews  watched  it,  in  his  stupefaction,  the  smile 
changed,  broadened,  hardened.  And  Magin,  sitting 
up  straight  again  with  his  back  to  the  room,  began 
to  execute  a  series  of  crashing  chords. 

After  several  minutes  he  stopped  and  swung 
around  on  the  piano-stool.  Ganz  clapped  his  hands, 
shouting  "Bis!  Bis!"  At  that  Magin  rose,  bowed 
elaborately,  and  kissed  his  hands  right  and  left.  He 
ended  by  pulling  up  a  table-cover  near  him,  gazing 
intently  under  the  table. 

"Have  you  lost  something?"  inquired  Ganz. 

"I  seem,"  answered  Magin,  "to  have  lost  half  my 
audience.  What  has  become  of  our  elusive  English 
friend?  Am  I  so  unfortunate  as  to  have  been  unable 


364  THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

to  satisfy  his  refined  ear?  Or  can  it  be  that  his  emo 
tions  were  too  much  for  him?  " 

"  He  was  in  a  hurry,"  explained  Ganz.  "  He  is  just 
back  from  Dizful,  you  know." 

"Ah?"  uttered  Magin.  "He  is  a  very  curious 
young  man.  He  is  always  in  a  hurry.  He  was  in  a 
hurry  the  first  time  I  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting 
him.  He  was  in  such  a  hurry  at  Bala  Bala  that  he 
didn't  wait  to  see  the  celebration  which  you  told  me 
he  went  to  see.  He  also  left  Dizful  in  a  surprising 
hurry,  from  what  I  hear.  I  happen  to  know  that  the 
telegraph  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  I  can  only  con 
clude  that  some  one  frightened  him  away.  Where 
do  you  suppose  he  hurries  to?  And  do  you  think  he 
will  arrive  in  time?  " 

Ganz  opened  his  mouth;  but  if  he  intended  to  say 
something,  he  decided  instead  to  draw  his  hand 
across  his  spare  jaw.  However,  he  did  speak  after 
all. 

"I  notice  that  you  at  least  do  not  hurry,  Majesty! 
Do  you  fiddle  while  Rome  burns?" 

"Ha!"  laughed  Magin.  "It  is  not  Rome  that 
burns!  And  I  notice,  Mr.  Ganz,  that  you  seem  to 
be  of  a  forgetful  as  well  as  of  an  inquiring  disposition. 
I  would  have  been  in  Mohamera  long  ago  if  it  had 
not  been  for  your  Son  of  Papa,  with  his  interest  in 
unspoiled  towns.  I  will  thank  you  to  issue  no  more 
letters  to  the  Father  of  Swords  without  remembering 
me.  Do  you  wish  to  enrich  the  already  overstocked 
British  Museum  at  my  expense?  But  I  do  not  mind 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM  365 

revealing  to  you  that  I  am  now  really  on  my  way  to 
Mohamera." 

"H'm,"  let  out  Ganz  slowly.  "My  dear  fellow, 
haven 't  you  heard  that  there  is  a  war  in  Europe?" 

"I  must  confess,  my  good  Ganz,  that  I  have.  But 
what  has  Europe  to  do  with  Mohamera?" 

"God  knows,"  said  Ganz.  "I  should  think  how 
ever,  since  you  are  so  far  from  the  Gulf,  that  you 
would  prefer  the  route  of  Baghdad — now  that 
French  and  Russian  cruisers  are  seeking  whom  they 
may  devour."  i  • 

"You  forget,  Mr.  Ganz,  that  I  am  so  fortunate  as 
to  possess  a  number  of  valuable  objects  of  virtue.  I 
would  think  twice  before  attempting  to  carry  those 
objects  of  virtue  through  the  country  of  our  excellent 
friends  the  Beni  Lam  Arabs!" 

Ganz  laughed. 

"Your  objects  of  virtue  could  very  well  be  left  with 
me.  What  if  the  English  should  go  into  the  war?" 

"The  English?  Go  into  the  war?  Never  fear! 
This  is  not  their  affair.  And  if  it  were,  what  could 
they  do?  Sail  their  famous  ships  up  the  Rhine  and 
the  Elbe?  Besides,  that  treacherous  memory  of 
.yours  seems  to  fail  you  again.  This  is  Persia,  not 
England." 

"Perhaps,"  answered  Ganz.  "But  the  English 
are  very  funny  people.  There  is  a  rumour,  you 
know,  of  pourparlers.  What  if  you  were  to  sail  down 
to  the  Gulf  and  some  little  midshipman  were  to  fire 
a  shot  across  your  bow?  " 


366  THE   EMPEROR   OF   ELAM 

"Ah,  bah!  I  am  a  neutral!  And  Britannia  is  a  fat 
old  woman!  Also  a  rich  one,  who  doesn't  put  her 
hand  into  her  pocket  to  please  her  neighbours.  Be 
sides,  I  have  a  little  affair  with  the  Sheikh  of  Moha- 
mera — objects  of  virtue,  indigo,  who  knows  what? 
As  you  know,  I  am  a  versatile  man."  And  swing 
ing  around  on  his  stool,  Magin  began  to  play  again. 

"  But  even  fat  old  women  sometimes  know  how  to 
bite,"  objected  Ganz. 

"Not  when  their  teeth  have  dropped  out,"  Magin 
threw  over  his  shoulder — "or  when  strong  young 
men  plug  their  jaws!" 

VI 

Two  days  later,  or  not  quite  three  days  later,  the 
galley  and  the  motor-boat  whose  accidental  encoun 
ter  brought  about  the  events  of  this  narrative  met 
again.  This  second  meeting  took  place  in  the  Karun, 
as  before,  but  at  a  point  some  fifty  or  sixty  miles 
below  Bund-i-Kir.  And  now  the  moon,  not  the  sun, 
cast  its  paler  glitter  between  the  high  dark  banks  of 
the  stream. 

It  was  a  keen-eared  young  Lur  who  first  heard 
afar  the  pant  of  the  mysterious  jinni.  Before 
he  or  his  companions  descried  the  motor-boat, 
however,  Gaston,  rounding  a  sharp  curve  above 
the  island  of  Umm-un-Nakhl,  caught  sight  of  the 
sweeps  of  the  barge  flashing  in  the  moonlight.  The 
unexpected  view  of  that  flash  was  not  disagreeable 
to  Gaston.  For,  as  Gaston  put  it  to  himself,  he  was 


THE   EMPEROR  OF  ELAM  367 

sad — despite  the  efforts  of  his  friend,  the  telegraph 
operator  at  Ahwaz,  to  cheer  him  up.  It  is  true  that 
the  operator,  who  was  Irish  and  a  man  of  heart,  had 
accorded  him  but  a  limited  amount  of  cheer,  to 
gether  with  hard  words  not  a  few.  Recalling  them, 
Gaston  picked  up  a  knife  that  lay  on  the  seat  beside 
him — an  odd  curved  knife  of  the  country,  in  a  leather 
sheath.  There  is  no  reason  why  I  should  conceal  the 
fact  that  this  knife  was  a  gift  from  Gaston's  Bakhti- 
ari  henchman,  who  had  presented  it  to  Gaston,  with 
immense  solemnity,  on  hearing  that  there  was  a  war 
in  Firengistan  and  that  the  young  men  of  the  oil 
works  were  going  to  it.  What  had  become  of  that  type 
of  a  Bakhtiari,  Gaston  wondered?  Then,  spying  the 
flash  of  those  remembered  oars,  he  bethought  him 
of  the  seigneur  of  a  Brazilian  whose  hospitable  yacht, 
he  had  reason  to  know,  was  not  destitute  of  cheer. 

When  he  was  near  enough  the  barge  to  make  out 
the  shadow  of  the  high  beak  on  the  moonlit  water  he 
cut  off  the  motor.  The  sweeps  forthwith  ceased  to 
flash.  Gaston  then  called  out  the  customary  saluta 
tion.  It  was  answered,  as  before,  by  the  deep  voice 
of  the  Brazilian.  He  stood  at  the  rail  of  the  barge  as 
the  motor-boat  glided  alongside. 

"Ah,  mon  vieux,  you  are  alone  this  time?"  said 
Magin  genially.  "Where  are  the  others?" 

"I  do  not  figure  to  myself/'  answered  Gaston, 
"that  you  derange  yourself  to  inquire  for  my  sacred 
devil  of  a  Bakhtiari,  who  has  taken  the  key  of  the 
fields.  As  for  Monsieur  Guy,  the  Englishman  you 


368  THE   EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

saw  the  other  time,  whose  name  does  not  pronounce 
itself,  he  has  gone  to  the  war.  I  just  took  him  and 
three  others  to  Ahwaz,  where  they  meet  more  of 
their  friends  and  all  go  together  on  the  steamer  to 
Mohamera." 

"Really!  And  did  you  hear  any  news  at 
Ahwaz?" 

"The  latest  is  that  England  has  declared  war." 

' '  Tiens! ' '  exclaimed  Magin .  His  voice  was  extraor 
dinarily  loud  and  deep  in  the  stillness  of  the  river.  It 
impressed  Gaston,  who  sat  looking  up  at  the  dark 
figure  in  front  of  the  ghostly  Lurs.  What  types,  with 
their  black  hats  of  a  theatre!  He  hoped  the  absence 
of  M'sieu  Guy  and  the  Brazilian's  evident  surprise 
would  not  cloud  the  latter's  hospitality.  He  was  ac 
cordingly  gratified  to  hear  the  Brazilian  say,  after  a 
moment:  "And  they  tell  us  that  madness  is  not 
catching!  But  we,  at  least,  have  not  lost  our  heads. 
Eh?  To  prove  it,  Monsieur  Gaston,  will  you  not 
come  aboard  a  moment,  if  you  are  not  in  too  much  of 
a  hurry,  and  drink  a  little  glass  with  me?  " 

Gaston  needed  no  urging.  In  a  trice  he  had  lashed 
his  boat  to  the  barge  and  was  on  the  deck.  The  agree 
able  Brazilian  was  not  too  much  of  a  seigneur  to 
shake  his  hand  in  welcome,  or  to  lead  him  into  the 
cabin  where  a  young  Lur  was  in  the  act  of  lighting 
candles. 

"  It  is  so  hot,  and  so  many  strange  beasts  fly  about 
this  river,"  Magin  explained,  "that  I  usually  prefer 
to  travel  without  a  light.  But  we  must  see  the  way 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM  369 

to  our  mouths!  What  will  you  have?  Beer?  Bor 
deaux?  Champagne?  " 

Gaston  considered  this  serious  question  with  atten 
tion. 

"Since  Monsieur  has  the  goodness  to  inquire,  if 
Monsieur  has  any  of  that  fine  champagne  I  tasted 
before- 

"Ah  yes!  Certainly."  And  he  gave  a  rapid  order 
to  the  Lur.  Then  he  stood  silent,  his  eyes  fixed  on 
the  reed  portiere.  Gaston  was  more  impressed  than 
ever  as  he  stood  too,  beret  in  hand,  looking  around 
the  little  saloon,  so  oddly,  yet  so  comfortably  fitted 
out  with  rugs  and  skins.  Presently  the  Lur  reap 
peared  through  the  reed  portiere,  which  aroused  the 
Brazilian  from  his  abstraction.  He  filled  the  two 
glasses  himself,  waving  his  attendant  out  of  the  cab 
in,  and  handed  one  to  Gaston.  The  other  he  raised 
in  the  air,  bowing  to  his  guest.  "To  the  victor!"  he 
said.  "And  sit  down,  won't  you?  There  is  more 
than  one  glass  in  that  bottle." 

Gaston  was  enchanted  to  sit  down  and  to  sip  an 
other  cognac. 

"But,  Monsieur,"  he  exclaimed,  looking  about 
again,  "you  travel  like  an  emperor!" 

"Ho!"  laughed  Magin,  with  a  quick  glance  at 
Gaston.  "  I  am  well  enough  here.  But  there  is  one 
difficulty."  He  looked  at  his  glass,  holding  it  up  to 
the  light.  "  I  travel  too  slowly." 

Gaston  smiled. 

"In  Persia,  who  cares?" 


370  THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

"Well,  it  happens  that  at  this  moment  I  do.  I 
have  affairs  at  Mohamera.  And  in  this  tub  it  will 
take  me  three  days  more  at  the  best — without  con 
sidering  that  I  shall  have  to  wait  till  daylight  to  get 
through  the  rocks  at  Ahwaz."  He  lowered  his  glass 
and  looked  back  at  Gaston.  "  Tell  me :  Why  shouldn't 
you  take  me  down,  ahead  of  my  tub?  Eh?  Or  to 
Sablah,  if  Mohamera  is  too  far?  It  would  not  delay 
you  so  much,  after  all.  You  can  tell  them  any  story 
you  like  at  Sheleilieh.  Otherwise  I  am  sure  we  can 
make  a  satisfactory  arrangement."  He  put  his  hand 
suggestively  into  his  pocket. 

Gaston  considered  it  between  sips.  It  really  was 
not  much  to  do  for  this  uncle  of  America  who  had 
been  so  amiable.  And  others  had  suddenly  become 
so  much  less  amiable  than  their  wont.  Moreover 
that  Bakhtiari — he  might  repent  when  he  heard  the 
motor  again.  At  any  rate  one  could  say  that  one  had 
waited  for  him.  And  the  Brazilian  would  no  doubt 
show  a  gratitude  so  handsome  that  one  could  afford 
to  be  a  little  independent.  If  those  on  the  steamer 
asked  any  questions  when  the  motor-boat  passed, 
surely  the  Brazilian,  who  was  more  of  a  seigneur 
than  any  employe*  of  an  oil  company,  would  know 
how  to  answer. 

"Allans!    Why  not?"  he  said  aloud. 

"Bravo!"  cried  the  Brazilian,  withdrawing  his 
hand  from  his  pocket.  "Take  that  as  part  of  my 
ticket.  And  excuse  me  a  moment  while  I  make 
arrangements." 


THE   EMPEROR   OF  ELAM  371 

He  disappeared  through  the  reed  portiere,  leaving 
Gaston  to  admire  five  shining  napoleons.  It  gave 
him  an  odd  sensation  to  see,  after  so  long,  those  coins 
of  his  country.  When  Magin  finally  came  back,  it 
was  through  the  inner  door. 

"Tell  me:  how  much  can  you  carry?"  he  asked. 
"  I  have  four  boxes  I  would  like  to  take  with  me,  be 
sides  a  few  small  things.  These  fools  might  wreck 
themselves  at  Ahwaz  and  lose  everything  in  the 
river.  It  would  annoy  me  very  much — after  all  the 
trouble  I  have  had  to  collect  my  objects  of  virtue! 
Besides,  the  tub  will  get  through  more  easily  with 
out  them.  Come  in  and  see." 

"Mon  Dieul"  exclaimed  Gaston,  scratching  his 
head,  when  he  saw.  "My  boat  won't  get  through 
more  easily  with  them,  especially  at  night."  He 
looked  curiously  around  the  cozy  stateroom. 

"But  it  will  take  them,  eh?  If  necessary,  we  can 
land  them  at  Ahwaz  and  have  them  carried  around 
the  rapids." 

The  thing  took  some  manoeuvring;  but  the  Lurs, 
with  the  help  of  much  fluent  profanity  from  their 
master,  finally  accomplished  it  without  sinking  the 
motor-boat.  Gaston,  sitting  at  the  wheel  to  guard 
his  precious  engine  against  some  clumsiness  of  the 
black-hatted  mountaineers,  looked  on  with  humor 
ous  astonishment  at  this  turn  of  affairs.  He  was 
destined,  it  appeared,  to  be  disappointed  in  his  hope 
of  cheer.  That  cognac  was  really  very  good — if  only 
one  had  had  more  of  it.  Still,  one  at  least  had  com- 


372  THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

pany  now;  and  he  was  not  the  man  to  be  insensible 
to  the  fine  champagne  of  the  unexpected.  Nor  was 
he  unconscious  that  of  many  baroque  scenes  at  which 
he  had  assisted,  this  was  not  the  least  baroque. 

When  the  fourth  chest  had  gingerly  been  lowered 
into  place,  Magin  vanished  again.  Presently  he  re 
appeared,  followed  by  his  majordomo,  to  whom  he 
gave  instructions  in  a  low  voice.  Then  he  stepped 
into  the  stern  of  the  boat.  The  majordomo,  taking 
two  portmanteaux  and  a  rug  from  the  Lurs  behind 
him,  handed  them  down  to  Gaston.  Having  dis 
posed  of  them,  Gaston  stood  up,  his  eyes  on  the  Lurs 
who  crowded  the  rail. 

"Well,  my  friend,"  said  Magin  gaily,  "for  whom 
are  you  waiting?  We  shall  yet  have  opportunities 
to  admire  the  romantic  scenery  of  the  Karun!" 

"Ah!  Monsieur  takes  no — other  object  of  virtue 
with  him?" 

"Have  you  so  much  room?"  laughed  Magin.  "It 
is  a  good  thing  there  is  no  wind  to-night.  Go  ahead." 

Gaston  cast  off,  backed  a  few  feet,  reversed,  and 
described  a  wide  arc  around  the  stern  of  the  barge. 
It  made  a  singular  picture  in  the  moonlight,  with  its 
black-curved  beak  and  its  spectral  crew.  They 
shifted  to  the  other  rail  as  the  motor-boat  came 
about,  watching  silently. 

"To  your  oars!"  shouted  Magin  at  them.  "Row, 
sons  of  burnt  fathers!  Will  you  have  me  wait  a 
month  for  you  at  Mohamera?" 

They  scattered  to  their  places,  and  Gaston  caught 


THE   EMPEROR  OF  ELAM  373 

the  renewed  flash  of  the  sweeps  as  he  turned  to  steer 
for  the  bend.  It  was  a  good  thing,  he  told  himself, 
that  there  was  no  wind  to-night.  The  gunwale  was 
nearer  the  water  than  he  or  the  boat  cared  for.  She 
made  nothing  like  her  usual  speed.  However,  he  said 
nothing.  Neither  did  Magin — until  the  dark  shadow 
of  Umm-un-Nakhl  divided  the  glitter  in  front  of 
them. 

"Take  the  narrower  channel,"  he  ordered  then. 
And  when  they  were  in  it  he  added:  "Stop,  will 
you,  and  steer  in  there,  under  the  shadow  of  the 
shore?  I  think  we  would  better  fortify  ourselves  for 
the  work  of  the  night.  I  at  least  did  not  forget  the 
cognac,  among  my  other  objects  of  virtue." 

They  fortified  themselves  accordingly,  the  Brazil 
ian  producing  cigars  as  well.  He  certainly  was  an 
original,  thought  Gaston,  now  hopeful  of  experiencing 
actual  cheer.  That  originality  proved  itself  anew 
when,  after  a  much  longer  period  of  refreshment  than 
would  suit  most  gentlemen  in  a  hurry,  the  familiar 
flash  became  visible  in  the  river  behind  them. 

"Now  be  quiet,"  commanded  the  extraordinary 
uncle  of  America.  "What  ever  happens  we  mustn't 
let  them  hear  us.  If  they  take  this  channel,  we  will 
slip  down,  and  run  part  way  up  the  other.  We  shall 
give  them  a  little  surprise." 

Nearer  and  nearer  came  the  flash,  which  suddenly 
went  out  behind  the  island.  A  recurrent  splash  suc 
ceeded  it,  and  a  wild  melancholy  singing.  The  sing 
ing  and  the  recurrent  splash  grew  louder,  filled  the 


374  THE   EMPEROR   OF   ELAM 

silence  of  the  river,  grew  softer;  and  presently  the 
receding  oars  flashed  again,  below  the  island.  But 
not  until  the  last  glint  was  lost  in  the  shimmer  of  the 
water,  the  last  sound  had  died  out  of  the  summer 
night,  did  the  Brazilian  begin  to  unfold  his  surprise. 

"Que  diable  allait-on  faire  dans  cette  galere!"  he  ex 
claimed.  "  It's  the  first  time  I  ever  knew  them  to  do 
the  right  thing!  Let  us  drink  one  more  little  glass  to 
the  good  fortune  of  their  voyage.  And  here,  by  the 
way,  is  another  part  of  my  ticket."  He  handed 
Gaston  five  more  napoleons.  "But  now,  my  friend, 
we  have  some  work.  I  see  we  shall  never  get  any 
where  with  all  this  load.  Let  us  therefore  consign 
our  objects  of  virtue  to  the  safe  keeping  of  the  river. 
He  will  guard  them  better  than  anybody.  Is  it  deep 
enough  here?" 

It  was  deep  enough.  But  what  an  affair,  getting 
those  heavy  chests  overboard!  The  last  one  nearly 
pulled  Magin  in  with  it.  One  of  the  clamps  caught 
in  his  clothes,  threw  him  against  the  side  of  the  boat, 
and  jerked  something  after  it  into  the  water.  He 
sat  down,  swearing  softly  to  himself,  to  catch  his 
breath  and  investigate  the  damage. 

"It  was  only  my  revolver,"  he  announced.  "And 
we  have  no  need  of  that,  since  we  are  not  going  to 
the  war!  Now,  my  good  Gaston,  I  have  changed  my 
mind.  We  shall  not  go  down  the  river,  after  all.  We 
will  go  up." 

Gaston,  this  time,  stared  at  him. 

"Up?    But,  Monsieur,  the  barge — — "  •/ 


THE   EMPEROR   OF   ELAM  375 

"  What  is  my  barge  to  you,  dear  Gaston?  Besides, 
it  is  no  longer  mine.  It  now  belongs  to  the  Sheikh 
of  Mohamera — with  whatever  objects  of  virtue  it 
still  contains.  He  has  long  teased  me  for  it.  And 
none  of  them  can  read  the  note  they  are  carrying  to 
him!  Didn't  I  tell  you  I  was  going  to  give  them  a 
little  surprise?  Well,  there  it  is.  I  am  not  a  man, 
you  see,  to  be  tied  to  objects  of  virtue.  Which  re 
minds  me:  where  are  my  portmanteaux?" 

"Here,  on  the  tank." 

"Fi!  And  you  a  chauffeur!  Give  them  to  me.  I 
will  arrange  myself  a  little.  As  for  you,  turn  around 
and  see  how  quickly  you  can  carry  me  to  the  charm 
ing  resort  of  Bund-i-Kir — where  Antigonus  fought 
Eumenes  and  the  Silver  Shields  for  the  spoils  of  Susa, 
and  won  them.  Did  you  ever  hear,  Gaston,  of  that 
interesting  incident?" 

"Monsieur  is  too  strong  for  me"  replied  Gaston, 
cryptically.  He  took  off  his  cap,  wiped  his  face,  and 
sat  down  at  the  wheel. 

"If  a  man  is  not  strong,  what  is  he?"  rejoined 
Magin.  "  But  you  will  not  find  this  cigar  too  strong," 
he  added  amicably. 

Gaston  did  not.  What  he  found  strong  was  the 
originality  of  his  passenger — and  the  way  that  co 
gnac  failed,  in  spite  of  its  friendly  warmth,  to  cheer 
him.  For  he  kept  thinking  of  that  absurd  Bakhtiari, 
and  of  the  telegraph  operator,  and  of  M'sieu  Guy, 
and  the  others,  as  he  sped  northward  on  the  silent 
moonlit  river. 


376  THE   EMPEROR   OF  ELAM 

"This  is  very  well,  eh,  Gaston?"  uttered  the 
Brazilian  at  last.  "We  march  better  without  our 
objects  of  virtue."  Gaston  felt  that  he  smiled  as  he 
lay  smoking  on  his  rug  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat. 
"But  tell  me,"  he  went  on  presently.  "How  is  it, 
if  I  may  ask,  that  you  didn't  happen  to  go  in  the 
steamer  too,  with  your  Monsieur  Guy?  You  do  not 
look  to  me  either  old  or  incapable. " 

There  it  was,  the  same  question,  which  really 
seemed  to  need  no  answer  at  first,  but  which  some 
how  became  harder  to  answer  every  time!  Why 
was  it?  And  how  could  it  spoil  so  good  a  cognac? 

"How  is  it?"  repeated  Gaston.  "It  is,  Monsieur, 
that  France  is  a  great  lady  who  does  not  derange 
herself  for  a  simple  vagabond  like  Gaston,  or  about 
whose  liaisons  or  quarrels  it  is  not  for  Gaston  to  con 
cern  himself.  This  great  lady  has  naturally  not  asked 
my  opinion  about  this  quarrel.  But  if  she  had,  I 
would  have  told  her  that  it  is  very  stupid  for  every 
body  in  Europe  to  begin  shooting  at  everybody  else. 
Why?  Simply  because  it  pleases  ces  messieurs  the 
Austrians  to  treat  ces  messieurs  the  Serbs  de  haul  en 
bas!  What  have  I  to  do  with  that?  Besides,  this 
great  lady  is  very  far  away,  and  by  the  time  I  arrive 
she  will  have  arranged  her  affair.  In  the  meantime 
there  are  many  others,  younger  and  more  capable 
than  I,  whose  express  business  it  is  to  arrange  such 
affairs.  Will  one  piou-piou  more  or  less  change  the 
result  of  the  battle?  Of  course  not!  And  if  I  should 
lose  my  hand  or  my  head,  who  would  buy  me  an- 


THE   EMPEROR   OF  ELAM  377 

other?  Not  France !  I  have  seen  a  little  what  France 
does  in  such  cases.  My  own  father  left  his  leg  at 
Gravelotte,  together  with  his  job  and  my  mother's 
peace.  I  have  seen  what  happened  to  her,  and  how 
it  is  that  I  am  a  vagabond — about  whom  France  has 
never  troubled  herself."  He  shouted  it  over  his 
shoulder,  above  the  noise  of  the  motor,  with  an  in 
creasing  loudness.  "Also/'  he  went  on,  "I  have 
duties  not  so  far  away  as  France.  Up  there,  at 
Sheleilieh,  there  will  perhaps  be  next  month  a  little 
Gaston.  If  I  go  away,  who  will  feed  him?  I  have 
not  the  courage  of  Monsieur,  who  separates  himself 
so  easily  from  objects  of  virtue.  Voila!" 
Magin  said  nothing  for  a  moment.  Then : 
"Courage,  yes!  One  needs  a  little  courage  in  this 
curious  world."  There  was  a  pause,  as  the  boat  cut 
around  a  dark  curve.  "But  do  not  think,  my  poor 
Gaston,  that  it  is  I  who  blame  you.  On  the  con 
trary,  I  find  you  very  reasonable — more  reasonable 
than  many  ministers  of  state.  If  others  in  Europe 
had  been  able  to  express  themselves  like  you,  Gas- 
ton,  Monsieur  Guy  and  his  friends  would  not  have 
run  away  so  suddenly.  It  takes  courage,  too,  not  to 
run  after  them."  He  made  a  sound,  as  if  changing 
his  position,  and  presently  he  began  to  sing  softly  to 
himself. 

"Monsieur  would  make  a  fortune  in  the  cafe- 
chantant, "commented  Gaston.  He  began  to  feel,  at 
last,  after  the  favourable  reception  of  his  speech,  a 
little  cheered.  He  felt  cooler,  too,  in  this  quiet  rush- 


378  THE   EMPEROR   OF   ELAM 

ing  moonlight  of  the  river.    "What  is  it  that  Mon 
sieur  sings?    It  seems  to  me  that  I  have  heard  that 
air." 

"Very  likely  you  have,  Gaston.  It  is  a  little  song 
of  sentiment,  sung  by  all  the  sentimental  young 
ladies  of  the  world.  He  who  wrote  it,  however,  was 
far  from  sentimental.  He  was  a  fellow  countryman 
of  mine — and  of  the  late  Abraham!— who  loved  your 
country  so  much  that  he  lived  in  it  and  died  in  it." 
And  Magin  sang  again,  more  loudly,  the  first  words 
of  the  song: 

"  Ich  weiss  nicht,  was  soil  es  bedeuten, 
Dass  ich  so  traurig  bin; 
Ein  Marchen  aus  alten  Zeiten, 
Das  kommt  mir  nicht  aus  dem  Sinn." 

Gaston  listened  with  admiration,  astonishment, 
and  perplexity.  It  suddenly  came  back  to  him  how 
this  original  Brazilian  had  sworn  when  the  chest 
caught  his  clothes. 

"But,  Monsieur,  I  thought —  Are  you,  then,  a 
German?" 

Magin,  after  a  second,  laughed. 

"But,  Gaston,  am  I  then  an  enemy?" 

Gaston  examined  him  in  the  moonlight. 

"Well,"  he  answered  slowly,  "if  your  country  and 
mine  are  at  war— 

"What  has  that  to  do  with  us,  as  you  just  now  so 
truly  said?  You  have  found  that  your  country's 
quarrel  was  not  cause  enough  for  you  to  leave  Per 
sia,  and  so  have  I.  Voila  tout!"  He  examined  Gas- 


THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM  379 

ton  in  turn.  "  But  I  thought  you  knew  all  the  time. 
Such  is  fame!  I  flattered  myself  that  your  Monsieur 
Guy  would  leave  no  one  untold.  Whereas  he  has  left 
us  the  pleasure  of  a  situation  more  piquant,  after  all, 
than  I  supposed.  We  enjoy  the  magnificent  moon 
light  of  the  South,  we  admire  a  historic  river  under 
its  most  successful  aspect,  and  we  do  not  exalt  our 
selves  because  our  countrymen,  many  hundreds  of 
miles  away,  have  lost  their  heads/'  He  smiled  over 
the  piquancy  of  the  situation.  " Strength  is  good," 
he  went  on  in  his  impressive  bass,  "and  courage  is 
better.  But  reason,  as  you  so  justly  say,  is  best  of 
all.  For  which  reason,"  he  added,  "allow  me  to  re 
commend  to  you,  my  dear  Gaston,  that  you  look  a 
little  where  you  are  steering." 

Gaston  looked.  But  he  discovered  that  his  mo 
ment  of  cheer  had  been  all  too  brief.  A  piquant  situ 
ation,  indeed!  The  piquancy  of  that  situation 
somehow  complicated  everything  more  darkly  than 
before.  If  there  were  reasons  why  he  should  not  go 
away  with  the  others,  as  they  had  all  taken  it  for 
granted  that  he  would  do,  was  that  a  reason  why  he, 
Gaston,  whose  father  had  lost  a  leg  at  Gravelotte, 
should  do  this  masquerading  German  a  service?  All 
the  German's  amiability  and  originality  did  not 
change  that.  Perhaps,  indeed,  that  explained  the 
originality  and  amiability. 

The  German,  at  any  rate,  did  not  seem  to  trouble 
himself  about  it.  When  Gaston  next  looked  over 
his  shoulder,  Magin  was  lying  flat  on  his  back  in  the 


380  THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

bottom  of  the  boat,  with  his  hands  under  his  head 
and  his  eyes  closed.  And  so  he  continued  to  lie, 
silent  and  apparently  asleep,  while  his  troubled  com 
panion,  beret  on  ear  and  hand  on  wheel,  steered 
through  the  waning  moonlight  of  the  Karun. 

VII 

The  moon  was  but  a  ghost  of  itself,  and  a  faint 
rose  was  beginning  to  tinge  the  pallor  of  the  sky  be 
hind  the  Bakhtiari  mountains,  when  the  motor  began 
to  miss  fire.  Gaston,  stifling  an  exclamation,  cut  it 
off,  unscrewed  the  cap  of  the  tank,  and  measured  the 
gasoline.  Then  he  stepped  softly  forward  to  the 
place  in  the  bow  where  he  kept  his  reserve  tins. 
Magin,  roused  by  the  stopping  of  the  boat,  sat  up, 
stretching. 

"Tiens!"  he  exclaimed.  "Here  we  are!"  He 
looked  about  at  the  high  clay  banks  enclosing  the 
tawny  basin  of  the  four  rivers.  In  front  of  him  the 
konar  trees  of  Bund-i-Kir  showed  their  dark  green. 
At  the  right,  on  top  of  the  bluff  of  the  eastern  shore, 
a  solitary  peasant  stood  white  against  the  sky.  Near 
him  a  couple  of  oxen  on  an  inclined  plane  worked  the 
rude  mechanism  that  drew  up  water  to  the  fields. 
The  creak  of  the  pulleys  and  the  splash  of  the  drip 
ping  goatskins  only  made  more  intense  the  early 
morning  silence.  "Do  you  remember,  Gaston?" 
asked  Magin.  "It  was  here  we  first  had  the  good 
fortune  to  meet — not  quite  three  weeks  ago." 

"I  remember,"  answered  Gaston,  keeping  his  eye 


THE  EMPEROR   OF  ELAM  381 

on  the  mouth  of  the  tank  he  was  filling,  "that  I  was 
the  one  who  wished  you  peace,  Monsieur.  And  that 
no  one  asked  who  you  were,  or  where  you  were 
going." 

Magin  yawned. 

"Well,  you  seem  to  have  satisfied  yourself  now  on 
those  important  points.  I  might  add,  however,  for 
your  further  information,  that  I  think  I  shall  not  go 
to  Bund-i-Kir,  which  looks  too  peaceful  to  disturb 
at  this  matinal  hour,  but  there — to  the  western 
shore  of  the  Ab-i-Shuteit.  And  that  reminds  me.  I 
still  have  to  pay  you  the  rest  of  my  ticket." 

He  reached  forward  and  laid  a  little  pile  of  gold  on 
Gaston's  seat.  Gaston,  watching  out  of  the  corner 
of  his  eye  as  he  poured  gasoline,  saw  that  there  were 
more  than  five  napoleons  in  that  pile.  There  were 
at  least  ten. 

"What  would  you  say,  Monsieur,"  he  asked  slow 
ly,  emptying  his  tin,  "if  I  were  to  take  you  instead 
to  Sheleilieh — where  there  are  still  a  few  of  the 
English?" 

"  I  would  say,  my  good  Gaston,  that  you  had  more 
courage  than  I  thought.  By  the  way,"  he  went  on 
casually,  "what  is  this?" 

He  reached  forward  again  toward  Gaston's  seat, 
where  lay  the  Bakhtiari's  present.  Gaston  dropped 
his  tin  and  made  a  snatch  at  it.  But  Magin  was  too 
quick  for  him.  He  retreated  to  his  place  at  the 
stern  of  the  boat,  where  he  drew  the  knife  out  of 
its  sheath. 


382  THE   EMPEROR   OF  ELAM 

"Sharp,  too!"  he  commented,  with  a  smile  at 
Gaston.  "And  my  revolver  is  gone !" 

Gaston,  very  pale,  stepped  to  his  seat. 

"That,  Monsieur,  was  given  me  by  my  Bakhtiari 
brother-in-law — to  take  to  the  war.  When  he  found 
I  had  not  the  courage  to  go,  he  ran  away  from 
me." 

"But  you  thought  there  might  be  more  than  one 
way  to  make  war,  eh?  Well,  I  at  least  am  not  an 
Apache.  Perhaps  the  sharks  will  know  what  to  do 
with  it."  The  blade  glittered  in  the  brightening  air 
and  splashed  out  of  sight.  And  Magin,  folding  his 
arms,  smiled  again  at  Gaston.  "Another  object  of 
virtue  for  the  safe  custody  of  the  Karun!" 

"But  not  all!"  cried  Gaston  thickly,  seizing  the 
little  pile  of  gold  beside  him  and  flinging  it  after  the 
knife. 

Magin's  smile  broadened. 

"Have  you  not  forgotten  something,  Gaston?" 

"But  certainly  not,  Monsieur,"  he  replied,  putting 
his  hand  into  his  pocket.  The  next  moment  a  second 
shower  of  gold  caught  the  light.  And  where  the 
little  circles  of  ripples  widened  in  the  river,  a  sharp 
fin  suddenly  cut  the  muddy  water. 

"Oho!  Mr.  Shark  loses  no  time!"  cried  Magin. 
He  stopped  smiling,  and  turned  back  to  Gaston. 
"  But  we  do.  Allow  me  to  say,  my  friend,  that  you 
prove  yourself  really  too  romantic.  This  is  no  doubt 
an  excellent  comedy  which  we  are  playing  for  the 
benefit  of  that  gentleman  on  the  bluff.  But  even  he 


THE   EMPEROR   OF  ELAM  383 

begins  to  get  tired  of  it.  See?  He  starts  to  say  his 
morning  prayer.  So  be  so  good  as  to  show  a  little 
of  the  reason  which  you  know  how  to  show,  and 
start  for  shore.  But  first  you  might  do  well  to  screw 
on  the  cap  of  your  tank — if  you  do  not  mind  a  little 
friendly  advice." 

Gaston  looked  around  absent-mindedly,  and  took 
up  the  nickel  cap.  But  he  suddenly  turned  back  to 
Magin. 

"You  speak  too  much  about  friends,  Monsieur.  I 
am  not  your  friend.  I  am  your  enemy.  And  I  shall 
not  take  you  there,  to  the  Ab-i-Shuteit.  I  shall  take 
you  into  the  Ab-i-Gerger — to  Sheleilieh  and  the 
English." 

Magin  considered  him,  with  a  flicker  in  his  lighted 
eyes. 

"You  might  perhaps  have  done  it  if  you  had  not 
forgotten  about  your  gasoline.  ,  And  you  may  yet. 
We  shall  see.  But  it  seems  to  me,  my — enemy! — 
that  you  make  a  miscalculation.  Let  us  suppose  that 
you  take  me  to  Sheleilieh.  It  is  highly  improbable, 
because  you  no  longer  have  your  knife  to  assist  you. 
I,  it  is  true,  no  longer  have  my  revolver  to  assist  me; 
but  I  have  two  arms,  longer  and  I  fancy  stronger 
than  yours.  However,  let  us  make  the  supposition. 
And  let  us  make  the  equally  improbable  supposition 
that  I  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  English.  What  can 
they  do  to  me?  The  worst  they  can  do  is  to  give  me 
free  lodging  and  nourishment  till  the  end  of  the  war! 
Whereas  you,  Gaston — you  do  not  seem  to  have 


384  THE  EMPEROR  OF  ELAM 

reflected  that  life  will  not  be  so  simple  for  you,  after 
this.  There  is  a  very  unpleasant  little  word  by  which 
they  name  citizens  who  do  not  respond  to  their 
country's  call  to  arms.  In  other  words,  Mr.  Desert 
er,  you  have  taken  the  road  which,  in  war  time,  ends 
between  a  firing-squad  and  a  stone  wall." 

Gaston,  evidently,  had  not  reflected  on  that.  He 
stared  at  his  nickel  cap,  turning  it  around  in  his  fin 
gers. 

"You  see?"  continued  Magin.  "Well  then,  what 
about  that  little  Gaston?  I  do  not  know  what  has 
suddenly  made  you  so  much  less  reasonable  than  you 
were  last  night;  but  I,  at  least,  have  not  changed. 
And  I  see  no  reason  why  that  little  Gaston  should  be 
left  between  two  horns  of  a  dilemma.  In  fact  I  see 
excellent  reasons  not  only  why  you  should  take 
me  that  short  distance  to  the  shore,  but  why  you 
should  accompany  me  to  Dizful.  There  I  am  at  home. 
I  am,  more  than  any  one  else,  emperor.  And  I  need 
a  man  like  you.  I  am  going  to  have  a  car,  I  am  going 
to  have  a  boat,  I  am  going  to  have  a  place  in  the  sun. 
There  will  be  many  changes  in  that  country  after 
the  war.  You  will  see.  It  is  not  so  far,  either, 
from  here.  It  is  evident  that  your  heart,  like  mine, 
is  in  this  part  of  the  world.  So  come  with  me.  Eh, 
Gaston?" 

"Heart!"  repeated  Gaston,  with  a  bitter  smile. 
"  It  is  you  who  speak  of  the  heart,  and  of —  But  you 
do  not  speak  of  the  little  surprise  with  which  you 
might  some  day  regale  me,  Mr.  Enemy!  Nor  do 


THE   EMPEROR  OF  ELAM  385 

you  say  what  you  fear — that  I  might  take  it  into  my 
head  to  go  fishing  at  Umm-un-Nakhl ! " 

"Ah  bah ! "  exclaimed  Magin  impatiently.  "  How 
ever,  you  are  right.  I  am  not  like  you.  I  do  not 
betray  my  country  for  a  little  savage  with  a  jewel  in 
her  nose!  It  is  because  of  that  small  difference  be 
tween  us,  Gaston,  between  your  people  and  my  peo 
ple,  that  you  will  see  such  changes  here  after  the  war. 
But  you  will  not  see  them  unless  you  accept  my 
offer.  After  all,  what  else  can  you  do?"  He  left 
Gaston  to  take  it  in  as  he  twirled  his  metal  cap. 
"There  is  the  sun  already,"  Magin  added  presently. 
"We  shall  have  a  hot  journey." 

Gaston  looked  over  his  shoulder  at  the  quivering 
rim  of  gold  that  surged  up  behind  the  Bakhtiari 
mountains.  How  sharp  and  purple  they  were, 
against  what  a  deepening  blue!  On  the  bluff  the 
white-clad  peasant  stood  with  his  back  to  the  light, 
his  hands  folded  in  front  of  him,  his  head  bowed. 

"You  look  tired,  Gaston,"  said  Magin  pleasantly. 
"Will  you  have  this  cigar?'7 

"No  thank  you,"  replied  Gaston.  He  felt  in  his 
own  pockets,  however,  first  for  a  cigarette  and  then 
for  a  match.  He  was  indeed  tired,  so  tired  that  he 
no  longer  remembered  which  pocket  to  fumble  in  or 
what  he  held  in  his  hand  as  he  fumbled.  Ah,  that 
sacred  tank!  Then  he  suddenly  smiled  again,  look 
ing  at  Magin.  "There  is  something  else  I  can  do!" 

"What?"  asked  Magin  as  he  lay  at  ease  in  the 
stern,  enjoying  the  first  perfume  of  his  cigar.  "You 


386  THE   EMPEROR   OF  ELAM 

can't  go  back  to  France,  now,  and  I  should  hardly 
advise  you  to  go  back  to  Sheleilieh.  At  least  until 
after  the  war.  Then  you  will  find  no  more  English 
there  to  ask  you  troublesome  questions!" 

Gaston  lighted  his  cigarette.  And,  keeping  his 
eyes  on  Magin,  he  slowly  moved  his  hand,  in  which 
were  both  the  nickel  cap  and  the  still  burning  match, 
toward  the  mouth  of  the  tank. 

"This!"  he  answered. 

Magin  watched  him.  He  did  not  catch  the  con 
nection  at  first.  He  saw  it  quickly  enough,  however. 
In  his  pale  translucent  eyes  there  was  something 
very  like  a  flare. 

"Look  out — or  we  shall  go  together  after  all!" 

"We  shall  go  together,  after  all,"  repeated  Gas- 
ton.  "And  here  is  your  place  in  the  sun!" 

Magin  still  watched,  as  the  little  flame  flickered 
through  the  windless  air.  But  he  did  not  move. 

"It  will  go  out!  And  you  have  not  the  courage, 
Apache!" 

"You  will  see,  Prussian!"  The  match  stopped, 
at  last,  above  the  open  hole.  But  the  hand  that  held 
it  trembled  a  little,  and  so  did  the  strange  low  voice 
that  said:  "This  at  least  I  can  do — for  that  great 
lady,  far  away.  .  ." 

VIII 

The  peasant  on  the  bluff,  prostrated  toward  Mecca 
with  his  forehead  in  the  dust,  was  startled  out  of  his 
prayer  by  a  roar  in  the  basin  below  him.  There 


THE   EMPEROR   OF  ELAM  387 

where  the  trim  white  jinn-boat  of  the  Firengi  had 
been  was  now  a  blazing  mass  of  wreckage,  out  of 
which  burst  fierce  cracklings,  hissings,  cries,  sounds 
not  to  be  named. 

As  he  stared  at  it  the  wreckage  fell  apart,  began  to 
disappear  in  a  cloud  of  smoke  and  steam  that 
lengthened  toward  the  southern  gateway  of  the  basin. 
And  in  the  turbid  water,  cut  by  swift  sharks'  fins, 
he  saw  a  sudden  streak  of  scarlet,  vivider  than  any 
fire  or  sunrise.  The  sounds  ceased,  the  dyed  waters 
paled,  the  smoke  melted  after  the  steam,  the  current 
caught  the  last  charred  fragments  of  wreckage  and 
drew  them  out  of  sight. 

The  peasant  watched  it  all  in  silence,  as  if  waiting 
for  some  new  sorcery  of  the  Firengi,  from  his  high 
bank  of  the  Karun — that  snow-born  river  bound  for 
distant  palms,  that  had  seen  so  many  generations  of 
the  faces  of  men,  so  many  of  the  barks  to  which  men 
trust  their  hearts,  their  hopes,  their  treasures,  as  it 
wound,  century  after  century,  from  the  mountains 
to  the  sea. 

Then,  at  last,  the  peasant  folded  his  hands  anew 
and  bowed  his  head  toward  Mecca. 


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